Sixth Sundown
by Grand High Idol
Summary: Sequel to The Devil's Reign. Terrence finally has his child, but the infant is only an omen of a catastrophe that could result in complete world anihillation...[Chapter 16: Let the nightmare begin...]
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

It was dark, the breeze chilly and the ground hard—nothing too peculiar for the beginning of November. Leafless trees swayed overhead, while a full moon illuminated a dirt path leading up to an overhead cliff. A metal sign beside the edge of the path bore the words, in rusty, fading letters: _DEVIL'S PEAK_.

In the past, during the 1980s, this place had been a spot for young teenagers to drive their cars out and make love on their dates—many virginities had been broken here, and perhaps that was just as well. Hardly anyone dared to tread on these properties anymore since the accident in 1995, but that didn't stop a select few from being adventurous. Two figures approached the edge of the path; one, a tall blond with a goatee and hair tied back in a ponytail, the other, an ebony-haired teenager. The blond drew in a cold breath through his lungs as he drew his bomber jacket tightly around himself, glancing at the swerving road that led up to the cliff.

"It's even better at night," he proclaimed excitedly. "No wonder so many people loved to come up here."

"Rusty, you're a freaking moron," the ebony-haired teen said, drawing his arms tightly around his chest, his breath coming in cold, visible puffs. His stomach and head hurt, and he felt nauseous. "What on God's green earth could have _ever_ convinced you to come up to this place at night!"

"Ya don't have to be a straight-A student if you already think too much." Rusty smiled, looked toward him. "Come on, Terr, where's your sense of adventure? I thought you loved the city at night."

"The city, not the outskirts," Terrence replied, loosening the rolled-up sleeves of his overcoat. "Besides, I hate this place. Do you even _know_ why this place is named Devil's Peak?"

"Don't know, don't care." Rusty shrugged, then started forward. "Come on, the view at the top is awesome. Unless…" He snickered to himself. "You're a 'scaredy-baby', that is."

Terrence flushed slightly; he hated it when Rusty referred to that incident. Jamming his hands in his pockets, he muttered, "Fine, fine, I'll go with you. But if anything happens I'm going to blame _you_ for it, got it?"

Rusty didn't answer, only smiled and began to climb the rocks that led up to the very top of the cliff. Terrence didn't want to; this place gave him bad vibes and he was still feeling sick ever since he got out of the hospital a few days ago, but he wasn't about to let Rusty win with his petty insults. He sighed and stepped forward, grabbing the first hand-holds that became the stairway to the top.

Rusty was already halfway up to the top, and he was about to start climbing when a bright flash of light came from behind them, illuminating the area in a harsh white glow. Terrence shielded his eyes, and Rusty whipped around, hands and feet still digging into the holds, as the light grew brighter, then dimmed and swerved to one side of the road.

It was a car that had given off the light—a red convertible; Mustang, to be exact. It bore silver lining and a gold hood ornament, license plate number MACHO7. Both boys had been around the city long enough to know who owned a signature car like that, and, needless to say, they weren't pleased to see it.

"Oh, God…" Rusty leapt off from the cliffside, skidding down and landing rather hard on his back. Terrence leapt down from his place on the cliff and stopped, shielding his eyes from the glare of the headlights. They both heard the clicking sound of a car door being opened, then saw a lone figure step out into the bitter night.

"Well, if it ain't the two white-trash faggots from down the road." The teen, a male in his seventeenth year, folded his arms and laughed. He had a muscular structure, dark brown hair in a buzz-cut, and flawless facial features. He stepped toward the two, then placed his hands at his sides, glaring at them menacingly. "And just what do you think _you're_ doing here?"

Rusty glared; gritted his teeth as he stood up. "Back off, Chuck," he growled, his hands forming themselves into fists. "This ain't your territory."

Chuck smirked, walked up to Rusty; the two were now face-to-face. "You know what?" he gave the blond a shove backward, causing him to stumble and smack against the cliff. "You two are middle-school trash. _I'm_ a high-school senior. I go where I want to go, got it?" He took a few more steps forward, shoved Rusty again. "You _got that_, you hippie trash?"

Terrence knew he was going to be beaten for it, but he turned his head toward the older teen. "Leave him alone, Chuck," he snarled. "He didn't do anything to you."

Chuck backed away from Rusty, began walking toward Terrence. "You trying to talk back to me, punk?" he said, slamming a fist into one hand. "Well, I got plenty more for you and your faggoty friend. You're the one who killed your father, right?"

"Shut up!" Terrence shouted angrily, clenching his teeth. "What happened to Dad is none of your fucking business!"

Chuck laughed. "Right," he replied. "And you're the one who ran away, right? Worried your mother for five days straight? Gave your little brother a run for his money?" He shook his head and rolled his eyes up toward the sky. "Dude, if I were your mother I would've gotten an abortion a _long_ time ago."

The ebony-haired teen could feel tears of anger brimming at the corners of his eyes, but he refused to give in. He closed his hands into fists; hunched his shoulders. Rusty, who had gotten to his feet, sensed the teen's pain and came forward to help him.

"Hey, Chuck, cut it—" he began, but Chuck turned around, slamming him head-on in the jaw. The blond gave a cry of pain and fell on his back, clutching his face; blood was beginning to trickle from his mouth onto his jacket. Chuck whipped around to face him.

"You had something to say?" he growled.

Rusty shook his head, his eyes wide with fear. Chuck bent down and picked up a good-sized stone, tossed it up and down in his hand. "Good," he replied. "Now that we're all settled out, why not have your face inscribed in _stone_!"

He flung the rock at Rusty, who cried out and clutched his head. Terrence could now see that blood was beginning to trickle down from beneath his bangs and into his eyes; Chuck did not seem to care about his pain. He growled angrily, then leapt forward, grabbing Chuck around the shoulders.

"Fuck off!" he shouted, shoving the senior in the back with all the force he could muster. Chuck stumbled slightly, nearly tripping over Rusty, then gave an angry grunt and whipped around, shoving Terrence in the chest. He gave a gasp of pain and fell back against the hard ground, the wind knocked out of him, bile rising in his throat. He struggled to get up, but could not; he heard the sound of sneakers on gravel as Chuck approached him.

"You've really done it this time, you little fuck." Chuck towered over him, a large-sized stone in one hand. "I was _going_ to let you go with a few cuts and internal injuries, but it appears you want much more than that." He smiled again, a cold, heartless smile. "I'm sure that your mother will love to see your face in the obituaries tomorrow…I can just imagine her sense of relief…"

"SHUT UP!" Terrence leapt to his feet; his eyes had now taken on a bright yellow glow and his features were frightening, demonic. He kicked Chuck in the chest with his foot, sending him backward; Rusty backed against the wall of the cliff, obviously wanting to stay out of this one. The ebony-haired teen drew his sleeves up, then began to advance on him, fists at his sides, teeth bared.

Chuck was trying to get to his feet, but Terrence was quicker. He raised a hand, causing the jock to leap to his feet, almost like a puppet. He hung suspended as Terrence spoke.

"You think you're all that, don't you? You think that just because you're a senior and a star student, you fucking think you can push us around. Is that it?" Chuck swallowed; Terrence's eyes narrowed further. "_Is that it_!"

"Hey, man, I was just kidding—" Chuck began, but the young teen wouldn't let him finish. Almost by instinct, he brought both hands forward, then slowly began to spread them apart. Chuck's body quavered, then his head snapped up, his mouth opened wide, and from the neck down his body began to split open.

He screamed for mercy, but Terrence refused. His chest ripped open, his stomach, his groin. Organs spilled from the open wound with cascades of blood; his jacket fell off and hit the ground. The young teen then focused toward his head and snapped his neck forward.

Chuck gave one final screech for salvation before his head exploded, bits of bone, muscle, and brain flying in all directions, along with a wave of blood. Rusty yelped and shielded his eyes; Terrence appeared unmoving. Now lifeless, Chuck's mutilated body fell to the ground, soaking in its own pool of blood. The young ebony-haired teen moaned, brought his hand to his head, then looked toward Rusty. The glow in his eyes had faded; they had returned to their normal state, and he seemed to be unaware of what had happened.

"Rusty…" he began, but the other teen backed away, shaking his head. His gaze traveled from the corpse to Terrence, then back to the corpse, as he finally hunkered down on his knees, hands to his head.

"Good…good Lord…" he stammered, apparently in shock. Terrence reached out a hand to him, then stopped, looked toward Chuck—or what was left of him. A small rivulet of blood slowly began to pool around one of his sneakers as he stared at the body, then down at his hands.

"No," he murmured silently to himself, tears of fright jabbing at his eyes again.

"Lucifer…"


	2. Never Over

**SIXTH SUNDOWN**

**By Grand High Idol**

**I do not own Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends, nor any of its characters. The creatures and events of this story are purely extracted from my own thoughts.**

**WARNING: This story is rated "R" for graphic violence, strong language, religious mentions, sexual subject matter, and male pregnancy.**

**I.**

"I—I can't believe it." Rusty was still shaking as he held his mug of hot cocoa, his face pale despite the heavy wool blanket he was wrapped in. He looked at Terrence, currently sitting beside him. "Wha—what h-happened back there…? What was wrong with you…?"

Terrence frowned and looked toward the cliff, where the paramedics were loading Chuck's bloodied corpse into an ambulance. He shook his head. "I…I don't know, Rusty," he replied. He stared at the ground, wondering. "All I remember is getting angry…then something at the back of my head told me that Chuck had to die…" His eyes wavered for a moment, then his features hardened. "But it was right."

Rusty looked toward him, confused. "What was right?"

"The voice." Terrence shook his head, wrapped his blanket tighter around himself. "Like it or not, Chuck was bad news. He was a drunkard and a date-rapist. Whatever happened back there…" He exhaled, his breath coming out in a puff of cold air. "It did this city a favor."

Rusty was shocked silent for a few moments before he finally spoke. "You're hearing voices, man?" The blonde shook his head. "That's not good. Maybe you should've spent more time in the hospital."

Terrence didn't listen to him, only stared out at the trees, thinking to himself. He was positive that during his last fight with Lucifer that the demon had taken away his powers, but what if that wasn't true? What if he still possessed them and the incident with Chuck had somehow triggered them again?

Had Lucifer lied to him?

He had to know. Making sure that Rusty's head was turned toward the ambulance, he slowly extended a hand over the dirt in front of him and concentrated, envisioning flames. Almost immediately the dirt sparked to life, taking flame before quickly extinguishing into ash. Smoke arose from the burnt earth, and he quickly withdrew his hand back inside his blanket, quaking in fear.

Lucifer _had_ lied to him. He _did_ still have his powers, and they were working at full-force. That meant that whatever he had done to him back there…that blow to the stomach…the digging and scooping of his guts…it had to do with something else.

But what…?

He snuggled against Rusty, suddenly in need of companionship. Rusty jumped slightly, then sighed and placed his hand around Terrence's quaking shoulders. Sensing that the raven-haired teen was afraid, the blond tried his hardest to make him feel slightly better, even though he was scared shitless himself.

"Whatever happened to Chuck wasn't your fault," he told Terrence gently. "I'm pretty sure that there's a scientific explanation for all of this."

"I don't…yeah…" Terrence gently leaned against his friend's shoulder, drifting off as the red and blue lights of the police and ambulance flashed near them. He refused to tell Rusty off. He was only trying to help.

* * *

"Typical." Rusty slammed his locker shut, trying to steady his science textbook with one hand. "We witness a horrible mutilation last night, and the very next morning they make us go to school."

"Didn't help that they spent two hours grilling us," Terrence added, picking up his textbook and slamming his locker shut with one foot. In truth, he was worried about the questioning because he thought something would slip—that he had murdered Chuck using supernatural powers triggered by anger—but everything seemed to be kept in strict scientific order—apparently these cops didn't believe in the word "soul". He was lucky there, but he was still troubled; his mind appeared to drift to other things, his stomach still hurt, and he still felt like he was going to vomit. But he still figured these were after-effects of his hospitalization and not a big deal, so he simply shrugged them off. Now, clutching his textbook tightly, he began to run down the hall toward his science class, Rusty tagging along behind him.

They entered the classroom the second the bell rang, and quickly took their seats before Mr. Hakshaw, their science teacher, noticed them lolling around. The man had been on the brink ever since the two had entered eighth grade and was determined to get them expelled…or at least in a record of detentions earned by a single student. As Terrence took his seat a wave of pain washed through his abdomen again; he moaned and clutched his stomach, trying to force it to leave, as Mr. Hakshaw entered from the backroom.

"Good morning, class," he proclaimed, then shifted his gaze toward Terrence and Rusty's lab table. "Terrence…Rusty," he added, his voice bland with annoyance. Rusty grinned weakly, while Terrence sighed and placed a hand to his forehead. The teacher returned his gaze to the front of the room. "Today we will be continuing our lesson on anatomy by discussing viral infections in the human digestive system."

"As if we _need_ more anatomy after last night," Terrence muttered cynically; Mr. Hakshaw leered in his direction. A few girls in the class giggled, finding this amusing.

"Terrence, if you cause _any _more uproarious behavior in this classroom, I'll have to ask you to attend to the principal's office. I'm fairly sure he'll have a suitable punishment for smart-alecks like yourself." Hakshaw's eyes narrowed. "You have that _clear_?"

"That wasn't uproarious," Terrence declared.

"_Terrence Kraigen_."

A few more giggles from the girls. The teen sighed and placed his head in one hand, nodding in response. Hakshaw turned his gaze back toward the class, began his lesson. _Let's face it, the dude hates me_, he thought to himself, shaking his head. _Everyone _else_ gets to make comments in class…especially during that reproductive session…_He grinned at the thought, but his smile quickly faded when he felt a jabbing pain in his stomach, followed by another wave of utmost nausea from the back of his throat. He quickly clapped one hand over his mouth.

He was going to vomit this time. He knew it.

"…So, the lining of the small intestine is covered in small fingerlike projections called vilia," Mr. Hakshaw continued, pointing to a diagram he had drawn on the board. "Most nutrients are absorbed through here and into the bloodstream after leaving the—"

"Hakshaw?"

Mr. Hakshaw drew in a breath through his teeth. "What is it _now_, Terrence?"

Terrence swallowed, fought to keep down the rising bile in his throat. "I—I _really_ think I need a bathroom pass, man. I—I'm gonna vomit or something here."

"Terrence, if this lesson disgusts you, I'm sorry. But I am _not_ allowing you to leave this classroom until classes are dismissed." He folded his arms. "Whatever it is, I'm sure you can keep it under control."

Terrence opened his mouth to protest, but Rusty elbowed him in the shoulder, giving him the "don't-try-it" look. The raven-haired teenager slumped back down against the desk, nodding obediently.

Mr. Hakshaw turned back to the board. "Now, then…a common place viruses can breed is normally in places such as the stomach and small intestines, because most of the work is done here during digestion. Many commonplace side-effects take place as a result of the virus, but, as our dear friend _Terrence_ here stated, the common effect is vomiting…"

The nausea was growing worse with each passing second. He whimpered silently to himself and clutched his throat with one hand, stomach with the other. If he didn't get to a private area soon…

"…There are several viruses that cause this effect to take place, one of which is the common stomach-flu virus, or, as it's known in its original Latin name…"

It was too late. He clapped his hand over his mouth; fought to keep it back, but the gagging started almost immediately. He quickly turned his head away from his desk toward the linoleum floor…

"…Now, can someone name another virus that causes vomiting?"

Terrence gagged, then made a choking noise and finally upchucked what was left of his stomach contents. Mr. Hakshaw gasped; the class turned to look toward him. The entire room was silent for a moment, then…

Laughter.

* * *

"I cannot _believe_ you did that," Rusty proclaimed later, during lunch. The two were now standing in the line; Terrence appeared slightly shaken, but apparently that didn't affect his appetite. The teen had already taken first dibs on everything. "You're probably going to go higher up on Mr. Hakshaw's shit-list now after _that_ incident. Did you see how red his face got?"

"You're acting like I did it on purpose," Terrence muttered, stepping out of line. Several of his classmates passed by the two, their hands over their mouths, hiding obvious mirth. "Which I didn't."

"I know, I know, you wouldn't train yourself to vomit on-cue just to get on Hakshaw's bad side." Rusty grinned. "It was kinda funny, though. And the timing was perfect. Just after he says the word 'vomiting'—SPLAT! It's all over the floor." He placed a hand to his head, laughing. "Oh, God, I think you've made yourself a living legend."

"An _embarrassing_ living legend." Terrence took his seat underneath a nearby tree; stretched himself out, and immediately began devouring what he had taken from the line. "They're gonna be laughing at me for weeks."

"Yeah…" Rusty stared at him for a moment, then his features contorted into an expression of disgust. "How on Earth can you manage to eat that stuff? And after what happened this morning, too?"

Terrence shrugged a shoulder, then stuffed some poorly fried tater-tots down his throat. "It tastes okay to me," he said. "Besides, I'm fine now. I think that whatever I was feeling since I got out of the hospital was just some weird after-effect." He downed a pint of chocolate milk; tossed the carton over his shoulder. "Oh God, Rusty, you should try this corn. It's not as horrible as it looks."

Rusty shook his head, folded his arms. "When we went to that pizza place last night you wouldn't touch a thing, and suddenly now you're some human garbage disposal?" He stuck his tongue out of the side of his mouth, expressing disgust. "In all my years here I have _never_ heard someone refer to the cafeteria food as 'okay'. And that's a long time, man. I was held back in seventh grade for two years because I couldn't ace damn Earth Science class."

"Yeah, Rusty, I've only heard it about a million times." He shoved his tray aside, then eyed Rusty's. "Hey…you gonna eat that pizza?"

Rusty eyed him. "Hell no. Do you know what they even put in that stuff? It's only five percent cheese, from what I've heard around here, and they serve the same stuff day after—"

He stopped in midsentence; Terrence had already devoured the pizza and was now working him for his tater-tots. His mouth dropped open slightly, and he shook his head. "Dude," he declared, his eye twitching slightly, "That thing was eighty-five percent cardboard."

Terrence wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Pretty good cardboard." He looked back toward the line. "I'm gonna go get seconds. You want anything?"

Rusty stared at him for a few more moments, then shook his head. "Dude," he said, "if you hurl again, I do _not_ want to be within ten yards of you."

* * *

"Hola, tress perro!" Eduardo declared, walking out back near the Extremeosaur pen. "I bring you a snack, see?"

He held up a box of doggy biscuits, which the creature behind the gates immediately took to. Sniffing it with a wet nose, it swiped the box from the purple creature's hands with a warm, wet tongue, then drew the box into its mouth. A second head, bearing a second tongue, reached down to lick him.

"Good boy!" Eduardo said, patting the dog's middle head. "You like your snackies, don't you? Don't you?" Cerberus continued to lick him out of its gratitude. "Okay, stop licking me now. I just had shower today."

The dog panted a few times, drool dripping from its three tongues, then returned to its spot near the corner of the pen and lay down, placing its heads between its massive paws. Eduardo smiled and waved, then turned around and walked back toward the House, attempting to brush the saliva off of himself.

"Looks like I need second shower." He sighed and shook his head. "El tress perro is good, but he need to work on his greetings." He looked up; saw Bloo and Berry walking toward him. "Hola, Azul! Hola, Berry!" He waved; the two looked up. Berry smiled and waved back, but Bloo seemed uninterested. Leaning against the side of an adjacent tree, he crossed his arms.

"This is boring," he muttered, then looked toward Berry. "What are we doing out here, anyway?"

Berry smiled and held up the camera she was carrying. "To take pictures of _all_ the Friends here for my new and improved scrapbook, silly!" she stated, smiling. "If it weren't for the kindness of Madame Foster and her granddaughter I would still be down in Hell, and not here. I love all of you guys for doing such a kind thing for me, and I wanna make it up." She leaned toward Bloo, fluttering her eyelashes. "But not as much as I love _you_, my sweet Blooregard!"

Bloo stuck out his tongue in disgust; Berry ignored him and turned toward Eduardo, camera poised. "Wanna pose for a picture? I still haven't done you yet."

Eduardo looked around, then nodded. "Si! I pose for picture."

Berry smiled. "Excellent!" She held the camera up. "Now, just take a few steps backward…few steps to the side…aaaannnd…perfect! Okay, now smile and say—GAH!"

She yelped and brought her hand to her head, images coursing through them—so many images, images she had and hadn't seen, images of the past, the present, what was yet to come, all of them horrible, so _horrible_—

"You okay?"

Berry forced a smile and looked up toward Eduardo, who seemed concerned. "Yes, yes, I'm doing berry well. I just kinda…" She rubbed at one of her ear tufts, thinking about what she had just seen, but she did not want to worry the others. "…I just got a headache. That's all." She blushed and held up the camera again. "Ready, Ed?"

Eduardo gave her the 'ready' sign. "Ready!"

Berry nodded in approval and began to snap pictures; first of Ed in his normal stance, active stance, lying-down stance, freaked-out stance…she continued until she felt that she had done enough; she then lowered the camera and sighed. "Okay, we're all done."

"Good," Eduardo said, getting to his feet. "I was thinking it would never end!"

"You took the words right out of my mouth, big boy," Bloo said; he then looked toward the pen. "Hey…what's up with Terrence's stupid dog?"

Berry and Eduardo quickly looked up toward the pen, where Cerberus was now yelping, growling, and chasing himself in circles, his body taking on a yellow-orange glow. On his legs were freshly made wounds; wounds that did not bleed, and on each of its three heads it bore a symbol—a symbol that Berry knew very well. Her eyes widened in shock; Eduardo's, too.

"The Pentagram…" She drew closer to Bloo, looking for support. "What—why's it here? Why is this happening?"

Bloo shrugged. "I dunno, but it sure looks cool!" he smiled suddenly, leapt forward. "Yeah, Cerberus! Give 'em the light show of a lifetime, baby!"

"Something's not right," Berry said, her tone panicked. She quickly ran away from the delirious creature until she reached the edge of the house, the spot where she had taken her photographs. She had used a Polaroid; the snapshots were lying all over the place, fully developed and yellowing slightly for no apparent reason. She slumped against the wall in relief, then gasped when her eyes traveled down to one of her snapshots.

It was the one of Eduardo; the plain picture that she had taken, only in this photograph his body was cut up, torn, decomposing…almost evil.

And on the wall, right next to him, were these words, inscribed into the wooden boards on the house:

**_The Messenger must be Delivered._**

She didn't even want to look at the other shots right now. Trembling, she scooped up the camera and the shots she had taken and quickly ran back toward the safety of the House.


	3. Quarantine

**SIXTH SUNDOWN**

**By Grand High Idol**

**II.**

"Hey!" Terrence kicked the door to the apartment open; looked around. "Anyone home?"

There was no answer—typical, really. He was always left alone in the house after school—that was when Mac went to visit Bloo and the others, and Mom working her late shifts. Typical. Sighing, he slumped down on the couch. Locating a stale potato chip in the couch cushions, he quickly ate it; it was then he realized that despite the fact he had eaten not less than five hours ago, he was still ravenous. It was queer; his metabolism usually wasn't this high.

"Must be another growth-spurt," he murmured to himself as he turned over on the couch, but the hunger-pains would not cease. Groaning, he walked over toward the kitchen, muttering to himself, as he opened the freezer, possibly looking for some microwavable frozen pizza. What caught his eye, though, was something slightly less different.

"Hey…I didn't know we had ice-cream back here!" he exclaimed, drawing the container out of the freezer. Using the edges of his knuckles, he scraped back some of the ice that had caked around it. "Huh…strawberry flavor." He shrugged. "Better than nothing, I guess. But I need more than this…"

He looked back toward the freezer. "All right, fish sticks!" he exclaimed, forgetting for a moment that he hated fish sticks—well, he frigging _liked_ them now, for whatever reason, he thought. Slamming the freezer door shut, he then rummaged through the cabinets. The final results of his search were steak sauce, anchovies, and some chocolate chips that had apparently been forgotten.

If Rusty thought that the cafeteria food was horrible, he certainly wouldn't have liked to have seen what Terrence's final results were. These things didn't mix with one another at all in normal stance, but the young teen devoured it ferociously, panting from the fatigue and clutching his head due to slight brain-freeze. It was then he realized that he had eaten something completely unstable, and he was still able to keep it down. He'd fucking poured the steak sauce on the ice-cream, for God's sake…

"God," he muttered, shaking his head. "And I get disgusted when Mac dips his toast in chocolate milk."

* * *

"The Messenger must be Delivered." Mac re-read the words on the photograph, squinting slightly in thought. He looked over at Berry, who was on the couch next to him and Bloo, shivering with dread. "Berry…what's that mean?"

"I don't…I don't know," she whimpered, drawing her arms around herself, despite the warmth of the fire in front of them. "I got around back when I was down there, yes, but…but I never heard anything about the Messenger." She shook her head. "And Lucifer…all he ever said mentioning a Messenger was that it would 'someday come to Earth and fulfill its purpose', whatever that means." She looked back toward the fire, the flames dancing in the reflection of her irises, and added softly, scaredly, "Did you…did you _see_ what Eduardo looked like in that photo?"

Mac eyed the photograph again, looked up at Berry. "Didn't you say you took more than one picture of Eduardo?"

Berry looked over at him, then nodded her head. "Yes. Yes I did."

"May I see them?"

She cocked an eyebrow, confused. "Why?"

"I just need to figure something out." Mac glanced back down at the photograph, rubbing his chin with one hand. "This might be only one piece of an entire puzzle that we need to solve. We need as much information as possible. If Lucifer's planning on returning, even after what happened with the Hellbeast…" He stopped for a moment, thought of Terrence. "We can't let him come here. We _have_ to know more."

Berry's ear tufts lowered slightly, a sure sign that she was afraid, but nodded her head in agreement. "I'll go get them," she said, climbing down from the couch and retreating from the room. Mac sighed, looked at the photo again, then leaned back against the couch, listening to the soft crackle of the flames, the cold wind outside. Bloo gave a sigh of boredom, crossed his arms, and looked over at Mac again.

"Oh yeah, another thing I forgot to tell you…something totally awesome happened earlier today while you were at school."

Mac sighed. "What?"

"Terrence's stupid three-headed dog—you know…ah…um…I got the name, it's just on the tip of my tongue, here—"

"Cerberus?" Mac was suddenly at full attention.

Bloo nodded, pointed in his direction. "Yeah! That's totally it!…Anyway, he threw some kind of spaz-fit today in his pen after Berry took those dumb pictures. He was making all these weird noises and running around in circles and stuff." He shook his head in amazement. "He also emitted this really cool yellow-orange glow. It was totally awesome, man. Like the Fourth of July in November."

"No." Mac's eyes widened. "No, it's not cool, Bloo. It's _not cool_."

"You're just saying that because you didn't get to see it and _I_ did," Bloo scoffed.

"No, I don't care about not seeing it. It's just that—" He sighed, then began to explain slowly. "Look, I did some research while I was in the hospital. I asked for a couple of books. One of the books I checked out was a book on demon possession."

"Yeah, so?" Bloo cocked an eyebrow.

"So, anything that's connected to the Devil himself in any way tends to act odd when something's going down. Cerberus was born and bred as a demonite, which means, even though he's up here, he still has a telepathic connection with Lucifer. If Cerberus was running in circles and glowing like you said…" He swallowed. "We're in big trouble. _Really_ big trouble."

"I'm back." Berry's voice was quieter than usual as she entered the room, carrying a small stack of photos. She threw them on the couch next to Mac before climbing up herself. "I searched my entire sleeping quarters. These were the only ones I found that were taken around the time that…that…well…" She looked away.

"I know," Mac replied, almost sympathetically, before filing through the photos. Just like the first one, every single character taken in the photograph looked dead and decaying, and where there were proper places, writing was inscribed on each and every one of them, in charred, slashed lettering:

_The Messenger must be Delivered._

_The Light must be Extinguished._

_The Scroll will be ours Forever._

And in one, there were simply charred chain slashes raked along the walls—leaving a light residue of rust that Mac could clearly identify. He shook his head, his eyes wide in fright, and whispered, "The Soul Stealer…"

At the mention of the creature's name, Berry's ears pricked, and her features went wild with fright. "That—that _thing_ is back!"

"I'm afraid so." Mac dropped the photo to the side, features still frozen in disbelief. "And if the Soul Stealer has managed to walk upon the Earth and leave all these weird messages…that must mean that Lucifer himself isn't far behind."

Berry was shivering now. "The Soul Stealer is an incantation of evil. Just like the rest of the Undead Six. Molded and crafted in Lucifer's image by his whims. Living golems that cannot think, feel, or care." She looked up at the two. "If the Soul Stealer is out…then the other five can't be far behind."

"What are the other five?" Mac asked, curious; out of all of them, he had only seen the Soul Stealer, and if he was to battle these dark forces, he needed to know as much as possible.

Berry swallowed, then began to count them off, her voice high and panicked. "Barados, the Warrior. Allora, the Fallen Queen. Rasputin, the Puppet Master. Glengar, the Juggernaut. And…and…" She was silent for a moment, trying to remember the last one. "Oh! And Caracara, the Re-Animator."

"Wow," Mac replied. "Tough group."

"Yeah, tell me about it," Bloo agreed. "They sound like something out of a Rob Zombie film." Mac and Berry glared at him. "What? I'm just _saying_…"

"Together, their forces are near unstoppable," Berry continued. "With Lucifer's help, of course; he's practically what they run on. Lucifer also mentioned something about a 'scroll' of some sort that he claimed was taken from his possession by the Army of Light millennia ago, and he stated that when the time was right, he would get it back." She sighed, slumped against the couch. "And…and that's all I know. Really."

"All you know…" Mac murmured. "Bloo said there was something wrong with Cerberus. Do you know anything about that? I think he might have been possessed."

Berry blinked. "Well…it's not impossible—nothing is impossible in the spirit world—but I seriously don't think that a demon spirit could have—" She suddenly stopped, her pupils narrowed, staring straight into the flames of the fire. Mac looked over at her, then gently reached out to her.

"Berry…?"

No answer. She continued to stand still, that look of terror still frozen on her face, as she slipped off the couch, landing on the floor with a lifeless _CLUNK _like a taxidermy animal. Mac and Bloo looked down at her; Mac having to crane his neck due to the cast on his leg.

"Berry, you okay?"

Silence.

"Berry…?"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

She leapt to her feet, grabbing the sides of her head, and screamed; a scream of pure agony, of suffering. Mac and Bloo leapt backward out of fright as she leaned over, panting a few times, then twisted her neck around, turning to face them. The Pentagram symbol had been burned onto her head, still glowing a bright orange, and her features were crazy; her eyes were wild and she was foaming at the mouth. In a voice that was not at all her own, she said:

"_You thought you'd won, hadn't you? You thought you'd seen the last of Evil itself_?" Berry's body, obviously being used as a meat-puppet, straightened itself upward, the bones almost cracking in the process. It pointed a paw at Mac. "_Well, let me tell you something, little boy. The Devil himself cannot be defeated that easily. Soon enough, we will rise into our dark glory as kings of the Spirit World. The boy will die. You will all DIE_…!"

The last word dragged on for about two seconds, before burning out like a bad tape-recording. The pentagram faded, Berry's features became lifeless, and she slumped to the floor. A heavy presence filled the room; the air was almost liquid, as she lay unconscious, facedown on the wooden boards, but it passed quickly, and she got to her feet and quickly leapt onto the couch, snuggling Mac. Tears were brimming in her eyes.

"I-I was possessed," she whimpered, hiding her face in Mac's shirt. "I can't believe it. I thought this was a clean zone. OhMacohBlooI'msoscared—" She sobbed.

"It's okay," Mac told her, softly stroking her magenta-colored fur. "We'll get through this. We'll all get through this." He kept his eyes on the fire, and a single word escaped his lips as the image of Berry's possession flashed through his mind:

"Terrence…"

* * *

"…Oh, and just so you know, some of the sixth-graders are starting to call you 'Barf Bag'." Rusty snickered as they walked down the hallway to gym class the next afternoon. "Can you believe that? One day and the whole thing spreads like wildfire."

"Shut up, Rusty," Terrence muttered, entering the boys' locker room. The two teenagers quickly headed over to the locker area, where Rusty threw down his gym-bag before removing his shirt. Terrence took a seat on the bench adjacent to him. "I had a rough night last night, okay? I don't want to hear about any of your gossip crap."

"It's not gossip!" Rusty protested. "It's just…ah…a way of obtaining information through the school system, is all." He nodded; removed his jeans, slipped on his gym shorts. "It's not like there's anything _wrong_ with it or something."

"Rusty, you have more important things to do," Terrence replied, removing his overjacket, then persuading to remove his shirt. "Like _shut up_, for example."

Rusty frowned. "Terrence…" He stopped, looked away to make sure that none of the other boys were listening, and then fixated his gaze back on him. "I _really_ think you should see the nurse, man. I'm serious about this."

"I _told_ you, Rusty, the vomiting was just an after-effect. There's nothing wrong with me."

"No, it's not the vomiting that concerns me. I think…I think you might have some kind of digestive virus or something. No offense, man, but you look kinda…um…kinda bloated."

"So I wasn't physically active while I was in the hospital, big deal!" Terrence snapped back at him. "God, Rusty, it never ends with you—"

"That, and the fact that there's blood trickling down the side of your mouth."

Rusty hid behind his gym shirt, pointed toward one of the mirrors. Terrence whipped around, facing the mirror, then stood up and took a step toward it. He was, indeed, bleeding at the mouth—strange he hadn't noticed it before. _I must've just bit my tongue or something_, he thought, then wiped the blood from his face and turned around…

It was then that the nausea returned, only this time it hurt. A lot. Eyes widening, he quickly whipped his head toward the sink, allowing himself to retch yet again. Panting, he wiped the excess off of his mouth, then stared down into the sink—

"Oh. Jesus. _Christ_."

He hadn't vomited up his lunch and digestive juices this time; he'd vomited up blood, and lots of it. It was spattered over the mirror, over the edges of the sink, and was beginning to stain the interior a dull pink as it drained—like thick red syrup in a basin. Suddenly feeling light-headed, he slumped to the ground, dazed.

"Terr!" Rusty ran toward him, placing his hands on his frail shoulders. "Terrence, what's going on? What's wrong with you? Say something to m—" His gaze caught the sink. "Oh, my GOD!"

"So much blood…" Terrence muttered, shutting his eyes. "Too much blood…"

"That's it, man." Rusty shook his head, lifted Terrence's arm over his shoulder, then raised himself to his feet. "There's no denying it any longer. Something's wrong with you, and we're going to get to the bottom of it." He placed a hand around his friend's waist. "Can you walk by yourself?"

"Rusty, that blood wasn't—" He choked; a large rivulet ran down one side of his mouth, staining the floor. A faded image passed through his head, an image of Lucifer, and he slumped against Rusty. "Okay…you win," he said, sounding like a drunkard, before his consciousness finally gave way and he fainted against the blonde.

* * *

He awoke to find himself in the emergency room, stretched out on a gurney. His shirt was still on, as it was in the gym, but his overjacket had been stripped off. He moaned and tried to get up, but he still felt too weak; he slumped back down. In the back of the ward he could hear a little kid crying, her mother trying to tell her to calm down. _Wuss_, Terrence thought to himself, smiling a bit, but his smile faded when he thought of that image.

Lucifer.

Was he coming back? Had he possessed the teen into doing these strange acts in order to intimidate him?

His eyes narrowed. No, that wasn't up his alley, he thought to himself. Besides, Lucifer would probably try something much worse to frighten him—he could've vomited up his guts, for all who knows. These physical reactions had something to do with Lucifer himself…but they were acting on their own. He sighed and closed his eyes.

From outside the hall, he could hear the doctors talking, apparently to his mother. He opened one eye and listened:

"…The boy seems to be doing just fine now, and the scans we've done show that there's nothing wrong with his stomach or lungs. There are no broken bones or internal injuries, so nothing was punctured. Overall, nothing that could have caused him to act like this."

"But something's wrong." His mother's voice. "Something has to be."

"Well, ma'am…" There was a moment of silence before one of the doctors continued. "Something _did_ show up in our internal scans, but I don't know if it's a glitch or whatnot. Apparently, as with last week, there's a high energy level in an area located near his stomach—just between where the stomach touches the large intestine. And it appears to have doubled in size since the boy was here last."

Another moment of silence. "We doubt that it's cancer, as cancer cells don't give off readings this high. What we've deducted is that he has some type of new disease—one that affects the surrounding tissue of the organs and causes them to react in strange ways. This behavior, on our part, is considered normal. We're not sure if it's deadly or not, but we're suggesting that you keep him under quarantine until we can investigate these scans further."

"You mean a leave from school?"

"Just until we get these scans thoroughly investigated, ma'am. Don't want to put any of the other children at risk."

"But I have a younger son at home—"

"As long as you keep the older boy away from the younger one, it'll be fine."

"Very well, then."

The door then opened and two figures entered—his mother and one of the doctors. He sighed, then slowly sat up and swung his legs over the side of the gurney, still feeling slightly dazed from the events of earlier. He shook his head to try and clear the feeling, then looked toward the two.

"So…what's wrong with me?" he asked innocently, pretending that he hadn't overheard. His mother walked up to him, gently ran her fingers through his ebony hair.

"Sweetie, you just have a virus, is all," she replied; Terrence tried to get her to stop stroking him; not in front of the doctor, at least. "I'm sure you'll be fine, but we need to keep you at home until the doctors figure out what's going on."

_And until_ I _do_, he thought to himself. He sighed as he got off the gurney, trying to steady his step as he walked out toward the car. He was pretty sure that Lucifer had done something to him, but he knew enough to know that it wasn't a virus. Nothing of scientific nature had ever been used when punishing in the Spirit World.

_Punishing._

He shivered slightly as he got into the back of the car; his mother noticed this. "You alright?" she asked him; he nodded his head quickly before she asked any more questions.

"Yeah," he replied, as the car backed out of the parking lot. He sighed.

"Just fine."


	4. Expectant

**SIXTH SUNDOWN**

**By Grand High Idol**

**III.**

"Mac!" Bloo called from the front porch of the Home, as the little boy entered through the gates. "Mac, come here, you gotta check it out! It's so _awesome_!"

Mac quickly ran up to the front steps. "What is it?" he gasped, out of breath. "Did you—did you find anything interesting?"

"Heck yeah!" Bloo exclaimed. He pointed out toward the sidewalk. "We got freezing rain last night. The whole sidewalk's a big slippery ice-patch. And you know what that means…" He pulled out a pair of black leather boots from behind one of the potted plants. "Freestyle shoe-skating!"

"I _meant_ about Lucifer." Mac crossed his arms, then eyed the boots suspiciously. "Aren't those Mr. Herriman's old polo boots…?"

"Yeah, I found them when I went into his office," the blue blob replied, stepping into them—they were apparently much too big to walk in, so he threw them down the front steps to the sidewalk, then hopped down. "They've got slick soles—perfect for shoe-skating! And I don't think he's gonna miss 'em, anyway."

"Bloo…are you sure this is a good idea?" Mac seemed unappeased with the entire situation, but Bloo shrugged it off.

"You worry too much, man," he replied; he then stepped inside the boots—which isn't easy considering that you only have feet when you want to—and braced his arms against the sill. "Okay, now, watch me go!" He took off across the sidewalk, singing, "These boots are made for skatin'—OOF!"

Mac winced slightly as Bloo slipped off the sidewalk and onto the dirt, sending him face-first onto the hard ground. At first he thought that his friend might be hurt, but Bloo only laughed, spat up some dirt, then leapt to his feet.

"Did you _see_ that!" he exclaimed. "_That_ was shoe-skating at its very best, thank you very much!"

"I'm not interested right now," Mac called back to him. "I'll meet you inside later on for some cookies, okay?"

"Okay!" Bloo called back, hanging onto one of the trees to steady himself. Mac smiled and shook his head—sometimes Bloo could come up with some of the craziest ideas known to mankind—then entered the House. Wilt, Eduardo and Coco immediately rushed up to greet him.

"Hey, Mac!"

"Hola, Mac!"

"Co-co!"

"Hi guys." Mac smiled, but his features quickly dissipated into concern when last evening's events flashed through his mind. "How's Berry holding up? Is she doing okay?"

Wilt's smile faded; he shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mac, but she's still all wound up about last night…she won't even come out of her room. Some of the other Friends are acting strange, too—Cerberus won't do a thing but lie down in his pen and sleep. He won't even eat, let alone accept one single box of dog biscuits…"

"Si." Eduardo sighed sadly. "I even get him his favorite brand, but he no eat it."

"Co-co-co-co, coco," Coco added.

Wilt nodded. "Yeah…and he won't fetch, either."

"Berry's frightened, and Cerberus is inactive…" Mac sighed. "Guys, we _have_ to do more research on this whole situation, or else the Devil's coming to town again. And that's the last thing we want after what we've been through." The others nodded in agreement. "Wilt, do you know if Madame Foster will let us into her library? She's bound to have some old books there that we can look into."

"Mr. Herriman is in charge of the library now, Mac," Wilt replied. "We're going to need to ask him in order to get in there. And I don't know about you guys, I'm sorry, you know, but I'm not about to tell him that we want to get in there to look up something about possible Satanism."

Mac sighed and waved his hand. "That's okay, Wilt," he said. "I think I have just the right thing to say to Mr. Herriman. In the meantime…" He pointed toward Eduardo and Coco. "Ed, go out to Cerberus's pen and search for any strange activity. Coco, go to Berry's sleeping quarters and see if you can coax her out." He looked up toward the tall, furry imaginary friend. "Wilt, you're coming with me to the library."

"Are all these stations really necessary?" Wilt asked, frowning.

"We can never be too careful." Mac took Wilt by the hand, started pulling him toward Herriman's office. "Come on, Wilt, we've got some research to do." He nodded toward the other two imaginary friends. "You guys know what has to be done. We'll meet you back in the front hallway after we've found something of interest."

The two nodded, then walked off in separate directions. Wilt and Mac headed toward the office, silent, until the furry friend finally spoke. "So…what are we gonna do when we finally get the information we need? How can we possibly stop Lucifer?"

"Berry said something about a 'scroll' and a 'messenger'. If we can find out the mystery behind those two things, I think we might be able to prevent him from having his way." Mac looked up at Wilt. "But we're going to need to be really careful. This is the Spirit World we're dealing with, so we have to look at things from every angle, scientific or not." He reached the door, then pushed it open. "Mr. Herriman?"

The rabbit was currently hopping around his office, checking in closets, under desks, in every nook and cranny; he stopped when he saw the two standing in the doorway. Quickly straightening himself up—and nearly hitting his head on the desk in the process—he hopped toward them, hands at his back. "Yes, yes, how may I help you?" he asked curtly.

"Wilt and I were wondering…well, there's a big History assignment I have to do for school, and I was hoping we could check in to Madame Foster's library to see if there was anything there I could use as a resource." He gave the rabbit the 'innocent little boy' look. "Please? It's really, really important."

Mr. Herriman thought for a few moments, then finally sighed. "Very well," he said, tossing Mac the keys, "but take only a short time. The library hasn't been dusted yet this week…apparently Miss Francis hasn't been holding up _her_ end of the bench." He narrowed his one visible eye, peeved, and looked away for a few moments before his grave mood passed. "And let me applaud you, Master Mac, for delving so deeply into this project of yours. It's lovely to see one so excited about finding out his place in history."

Mac managed a weak smile and nodded his head. "Yeah," he replied. "Nothing beats a hard day at school like a _really_ long study session in the library."

"Indeed." Mr. Herriman checked atop one of the shelves, then turned to face the two. "It's not a pressing matter, but have either of you seen my good polo boots? I could've sworn that they were in my closet this morning."

* * *

"Wow, Madame Foster does a lot more reading than I thought." Wilt reached up toward one of the higher shelves; pulled down a picture book with a dusty cover. "This one looks at least as old as the 1910s."

"The older they are, the better," Mac replied, sifting through an assortment of encyclopedias kept on one of the bottom shelves. "Back in the day, spiritual contact and significance wasn't as censored out as it is today. We're sure to find something here if we look hard enough."

Wilt shrugged. "Okay, whatever you say." He placed the picture book back on the shelf, then looked through a series of chapter books. "Wow, the complete Hardy Boys series. I didn't even know Madame Foster was into this type of stuff."

A large leather book, sitting on one of the undusted tables, caught Mac's attention first. Quickly getting himself up, he ran over to the table and lifted the heavy item up, looking down at the cover. Nothing was inscribed; there were no illustrations except a golden crucifix embossed into the center of the dusty leather. Smiling, he set the book down on the floor and began to thumb through its pages.

"I suggest that we start off with where the origin of the Devil first began," Mac said to Wilt in order to grab his attention. He flicked to the back. "The Holy Bible."

Wilt frowned. "But there are thousands of stories in there! I'm sorry, Mac, but how are we going to find out _anything_ about Lucifer if we have to look through all those things?"

"Well, we know he only appears for a short time in the New Testament, and the Old Testament doesn't speak much of his origins." Mac eyed the diagrams as he flicked through the yellowed pages. "That means we'll probably have the most luck in the last section." He turned to a page in the back, bearing several diagrams and small text. "The Book of Revelation."

"The what?"

"Otherwise known as the visionaries of the Apocalypse, or end of the world." Mac grinned weakly. "I did a lot of studying back when I used to go to Sunday school." He began skimming through the text, paying close attention to the diagrams, until a particular one caught his attention. In bolded text, at the top of the page, bore the words:

**_Chapter Three: The Scroll and the Lamb._**

"This sounds about right," he said to himself, then began skimming the text below. His eyes widened. "Oh, my God."

Wilt bent down, trying to read the small text. "What is it? What did you find?"

"According to this chapter, the Scroll is an ancient text containing the sins of Man, only visible by the hands of the highest in the Spirit World." He pointed to a diagram of a lamb—a lamb with seven horns, seven eyes, and a greatly emaciated body. "This Lamb represents the Lamb of Heaven—namely, the Lamb of the Army of Light, to be more precise in this matter. The Scroll, once its seven seals are broken, has the power to destroy all life as we know it on Earth."

Wilt bit his lower lip. "Ouch." He took a seat on the floor, looking down at Mac. "But what does this Lamb have to do with Lucifer?"

Mac skimmed the text again. "It says that only the Lamb, which represents the suffering paid to all sins of mankind, can open the Scroll. Its blood is pure enough to the point where it can do that." He looked up at Wilt. "My guess is that Lucifer is after the Scroll and needs a being pure enough to open it _for _him so that _he_ can be in charge of the Apocalypse."

Wilt's one good eye widened. "But if that happens—"

"I know." Mac's expression was just as grave as Wilt's. "The Scroll is probably in Heaven's possession as of right now. He's probably assembling an army to combat the Army of Light and _get_ the Scroll. But his efforts will be in vain unless he has a pure being beside him to open it." He closed the Book, thought for a moment. "Call it a hunch, but I'm guessing this is where the 'Messenger' comes into the picture."

"But Lucifer is pure evil." Wilt shook his head and shrugged in puzzlement. "He can't possibly hope to open this Scroll with a pureblood being on his side."

"He can with the right token." Mac rubbed his chin in thought, his eyes narrowed in concentration. "But…but I just can't think of what it might be. The whole thing seems so far-fetched." He got up and faced Wilt, adjusting his backpack. "We've got to look more into this. If we ever want to—"

"Guys?"

Wilt and Mac jumped in shock, then quickly got back down on the floor and picked the nearest book from the shelf, pretending to read it. Mac lifted his head up as part of the act and smiled at Frankie, who had walked in through the doorway. She bore a feather duster in one hand.

"Guys, I'm here to dust the library." She looked around the room, then back at them. "What are you two doing in here?"

"Oh…um, just…just readin' some good old history," Mac said, grinning weakly and holding up the book. "Yep, nothing beats a hard day at school like some good old history. Right, Wilt?" Wilt smiled, nodded in agreement.

Frankie raised an eyebrow. "But you're reading the Brothers Grimm."

Mac looked down at the book, then, embarrassed, quickly added, "Um…we're studying the history of fairy tales! Wow, things sure weren't as pretty back then as they are now." He shut the book and set it on one of the adjacent tables, getting to his feet. "Are you gonna be in here long?"

Frankie sighed and nodded her head. "Yeah. Mr. Herriman wants me to dust all the shelves, _plus_ re-arrange all the books in alphabetical order." She crossed her arms. "I swear, that rabbit has it _in_ for me."

"Oh…that's too bad." Mac looked down at the floor, then back up at Frankie. "Do you mind if we stay in here a little longer?"

Frankie smiled. "I wouldn't mind, but I think Bloo would." She jabbed her thumb toward the end corridor. "Mr. Herriman's chewing him out for using his good polo boots as ice-skates, and he wants to meet you in his room later on for some cookies." She leaned down and whispered, "I decided to make him some. You know, just for the whole principle of the matter." She winked.

"Okay, we'll go meet him." Mac grinned, then ran past her, waving. "Thanks, Frankie! Come on, Wilt!"

Wilt looked down the corridor, then quickly sprinted after him. Frankie sighed, then began to dust the tables when she noticed the leather-bound book on the floor. Taking great care not to damage anything, she bent down and picked it up, brushing off the excess dust.

"The Holy Bible…?"

* * *

Terrence sighed uneasily, twisted over in his bed. He had his head in one hand and had spent the last thirty minutes thinking about his current condition. He knew that it had something to do with Lucifer, but he couldn't quite place a finger on it.

He sighed and flipped over again, staring at the floor. Every inch of his body ached, and he was worn out beyond comprehension, but he still felt wide-awake—despite his mother's advice to get some rest. Sighing, he slowly arose from the bed, looking toward the window. It was evening, and it was beginning to grow dim out thanks to the longer nights of winter. _Maybe a walk might help clear my head_, he thought to himself. Sure, he had promised to stay in the apartment while his mother was at work, but who was going to know? Besides, he didn't _want_ to stay in here anymore; he was beginning to feel like a prisoner.

Shutting the door to his room, he passed through the living room and out the door, into the evening. It was freezing; he sighed and rolled down his overjacket sleeves. One of these days he was going to catch hypothermia for walking outside in the cold like this. Grabbing the side-rail of the fire escape, he leapt down a floor, landing on the sidewalk.

He looked toward the city, heaved a deep breath, then jammed his hands in his jean pockets and began walking down the sidewalk. His mind was still as troubled as ever despite his surroundings, and he still felt rather sickly. Plus, he had the strangest feeling that someone was following him…

He turned around, looking toward the dimly-lit street. No one.

Turning back in his specified direction, he began walking again, though his steps were uneasy. The streets were empty. He was positive he heard something—something that sounded like the clicking of horseshoes on the cement—but there wasn't a living thing in sight. It was just like that night where he had first met the Soul Stealer…

He shivered, and this time it wasn't from the cold. He probably wouldn't forget that night as long as he lived.

The clicking came again, in steady, easy beats, the beats of a horse's footsteps:

_Click. Click. Click. Click_.

Whatever was following him—if there was anything at all—was definitely not the Soul Stealer this time. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved of this or more frightened, but he picked up his pace. The beats continued, and he looked behind him one last time…

A shadow dawned over him, and he whipped his head around in time to see something land directly in front of him—a few more feet and it would've been atop him. He yelped, then drew back, his mouth open in shock.

This creature was not the Soul Stealer—but it looked a lot more dangerous. A monstrous brute of a man—twice the size of any ordinary human—was saddled atop a hideous steed, which was nothing more than the large, carefully arranged bones of horses. The steed had two heads, its eye sockets lifeless and empty. It was as if someone had dug up the remains of a horse and had attempted to put the bones together but had screwed up. Dangling from their bleached necks hung mummified human hands, and each head was suited with a bridle. The man himself appeared to be a relation of the knights from the medieval ages, except this one's armor contained splotches of black mixed in with the silver. He was well-suited but not too well to forsake his immense muscular structure. His face was hidden from view; atop his helmet sat the skull of a being that the young teen could not identify—and didn't want to.

Both heads of the steed were raised; each of their throats gave a high whinnying noise that sounded more like the scream of a hawk than an ordinary pony. Terrence stood, frozen in fear, as the rider grunted, then tilted his head down toward the boy.

The two stood, looking at each other, for a short moment, before the rider removed a large sword from his belt and held it above his head. Terrence gave a yelp of terror and ducked just as the blade came by him, avoiding a near-decapitation. He leapt to his feet, then turned in the opposite direction and began to run.

Behind him, he heard the screaming of the steed again, then the clicking of the hooves again—this time in a gallop. He whimpered to himself and leapt into an alley, hoping to lose the strange creature, but the horses' heads were smarter than they appeared. As one head looked toward the North, the other looked toward the West. Terrence backed up against the wall, whining like a puppy, as the man advanced on him, in the process withdrawing an enormous mace, its chains studded with razor-sharp spikes that could easily impale an ordinary man within a split-second. Whoever—or whatever—this was, it seemed to know that the teen was cornered, for it slowed as it reached the halfway mark. The steed lowered its heads as the rider raised the mace, preparing to strike it down on the boy.

"No!" Terrence was panicking now, clawing at the brick wall. "Oh God, please, _no_!"

He heard the mace's chains slice the air, and cowered, backing against the wall, his face in his hands. However, the blow never came—he heard it, felt its force, but he remained unharmed. Opening one eye, he could now see a red-orange glow surrounding him as the mace was lifted. It faded the second the weapon was no longer a threat.

A force-field.

He'd learned a lot about his powers while being down in Hell the first time, but he had never known that he could generate a force-field to protect himself. He gave himself a mental slap for that; he could have easily gone unharmed if he'd known about this. The man paused, slightly confused, then lowered the mace again.

Once again, the field blocked out the weapon's path. The knight gave a screech of utmost anger, then withdrew his sword, slicing it downward. Terrence, knowing that there was now no threat here, quickly dodged the sword as it struck the brick wall, leaving a huge vertical gap down the center and causing the mortar to crumble. He crawled alongside the man and steed on his stomach, then quickly leapt to his feet and raced out of the alley. The man gave a cry of anger and raised his fists, and Terrence quickly flattened himself against a wall, expecting the weirdo to come after him.

He didn't.

Puzzled, the teen looked back into the alley. The knight was gone, as was his steed. The only traces of their vanishing were a thin cloud of smoke and a stain of ash on the cement.

Panting, he placed a hand to his chest and slumped against the wall. His heart was racing a mile a minute and his mind was clogged. Moaning slightly, he placed a hand to his head and looked up across the street.

There was nothing on the block alongside the trees besides a huge mansion, elegant yet simplistic. The lights were on in the bottom window, and a sign out front, painted on wood and embossed professionally, read the following:

**_Mary Junaught_**

_**Professional shaman**_

_**Spiritual matters and contact with the dead dealt with here**_

He raised an eyebrow. The teen wasn't sure if this woman could help him in the least, but he knew that shamans knew very well of the Spirit World and its existence. If Lucifer had indeed done something to him, a shaman would probably be able to sense it. Besides, what did he have left to lose?

Slowly getting to his feet, he raced across the street, up the front steps to the mansion, and slammed open the door, still panting. The room was dark save for a few candles and kerosene lamps; in the back sat a middle-aged woman, in a meditation position. She opened her eyes when she heard him enter.

"Hello, my dear boy," she said softly. "I was expecting you."

* * *

"Barados, you disappoint me."

Lucifer stood before the warrior, who had dismounted his steed and was now staring at the demon in an almost shameful manner. The demon had his arms crossed, and behind him sat the other five members of the Undead Six, looking at him with utmost repugnance.

"I did not give the order to go after the boy, Barados. You—as of any other member of the Undead Six—are not to carry out an action unless I approve of it first." He shook his head. "And I certainly did _not_ approve of that."

"I apologize, Master." Barados knelt down on one knee; the steed bowed its two heads. "I had overheard you saying that you had wanted the boy dead, and I thought that I would be granting you a favor by exterminating him."

"You're pathetic," Allora, the Fallen Queen, growled from the shadows. Lucifer raised his hand, silencing her.

"I do, indeed, want the boy dead—but not yet, Barados." He frowned and looked down upon his creation. "The boy is currently the key to our mission. It is of utmost importance that he is to remain unharmed until I say so." He folded his arms, glaring. "Not only did you endanger the boy's life with your actions, Barados, but you nearly blew our cover in the process."

"I apologize, Master," Barados repeated. "What I have done is arrogant. I should not have defied your whims."

"In the future, do not defy _anything_, or you will be punished immensely." Lucifer sighed and gestured with his hand. "You may rise."

"_My Master, I fail to see what is so important with the boy_." The Soul Stealer's emerald orbs narrowed and its head lowered. "_I thought after his betrayal to the demonites he was proven useless to us_."

"He was, but I resourcefully have found a proper use for him in our mission plans. _No one_ betrays Lucifer perfectly unharmed." The demon gave a coy smile as he turned around, his features shadowed. "Besides, as you may already know…"

He turned his head toward the Undead Six, his features menacing and smug at the same time, his lips still drawn into that coy, evil smile.

"…It's what's _inside_ that counts."

* * *

"I sense much darkness within you, my boy," the shaman murmured, placing her hand on Terrence's. "I have been foretold that you were the one to be the Devil's Apprentice, is that not true?"

Terrence bit his lower lip, then nodded. "Yes…yes it is. But…I didn't accept the position. I turned on him instead."

The shaman shook her head, folding her pale hands. "You cannot expect to turn on the Devil himself and not be punished, my dear." Her eyes traveled to his. "You have come for a reason, this I sense. Something troubles you; I can sense it in your eyes. Please…" She placed a hand on Terrence's shoulder. "Tell me what is wrong."

"I…I don't know." He lowered his head. "I've been kind of…well…sick for the past few days. I thought that it was just an after-effect of my hospitalization, but somehow I'm beginning to think that isn't true. The doctors think I have a virus, but I think Lucifer did something to me. Something…" He swallowed, then looked up at her. "Bad."

She nodded her head slowly. "I understand your fear," she replied; Terrence made no attempt to deny this. "If he has harmed you, he has harmed you internally, for whatever reason." She got to her feet; gestured toward a nearby cot. "Please…allow me to examine you."

The teen crossed his arms. "Do you have a license?"

"Do you want to know what is wrong with you or not?"

That shut him up; removing his overjacket and shirt, he slowly approached the cot and took his seat. The shaman approached him, gently feeling his neck, running her fingers down the stigmata still burned into his back. She then gently pushed him down, so he lay on his back, and began tracing one of her fingers along his chest. When she approached his abdomen, she fingered it for a moment, then stopped. The look on her face was grave as she asked him:

"My boy…when you betrayed the Devil, did you make any physical contact with him whatsoever?"

Terrence didn't know what she was getting at, but he slowly sat up and replied, rubbing the back of his head, "Um…yeah. I had to fight him before I went back to the surface because he attacked me. He also dug his claws into my guts for some reason…I don't know why."

"I think I do." She straightened herself up. "My dear, I have foreseen a prophecy during my meditation. It speaks of a young virgin and a dark child; a bloody war fought between the forces of good and evil." Terrence raised an eyebrow, still puzzled. "I sense, in your blood, that you are a virgin worthy of the Devil's intentions." She closed her eyes, breathed deeply. "This is going to be hard to break to you, my dear, but…" She was silent for a moment, as if she were holding something back. "You are with child."

"Ah…no, I'm not." Terrence shook his head. "I came in here alone."

"Do you attempt to mock me?" She grabbed his shoulders, brought her face close to his. He could smell green tea on her breath. "My boy, there is no simpler way to put it…"

The next three words that struck his ears were probably the ones that would stay in his mind forever more:

"You. Are. Pregnant."


	5. Loving and Loathing

**SIXTH SUNDOWN**

**By Grand High Idol**

**IV.**

Terrence's left eye twitched slightly. "What?"

"I'm sorry I had to say it, but it's best that you know." The shaman withdrew her hands from his shoulders and turned away. "You're with child, my boy. And if I'm not mistaken, you will conceive within a period of ten weeks."

"But—but I'm a _guy_!" Terrence exclaimed, finally out of his temporary shock. He placed a hand to his chest. "Guys don't _have_ kids! Girls do!" He shook his head, slightly delirious. "Oh my God, all that I've been told in science is a _LIE_—"

"This is not at all scientific," the shaman told him, placing a hand on his shoulder once more—was she being sympathetic? "The Spirit World can defy all laws of science any time it wishes to. Hence your current condition." She formed one hand into a fist, and shook her head. "Do not try to stop it. Do not try to harm yourself because of it. So it was written, so it shall be." She bent down and gently gave the teen his shirt and overjacket back; his eyes were wide and his face had turned pale—paler than usual. "I understand that you did not want to know this. But it is best that you do."

Shaking, Terrence pulled on his shirt, then wrapped his overjacket around himself. So that explained everything—the nausea and vomiting, the stomach cramps, the weird-ass food—

He felt like he was about to faint, but his blood was pumping too quickly, and his mind was racing a mile a minute. He instead dropped to his knees, falling off the cot, his motions conveyed out of shock and almost corpselike. The shaman looked down at him, hands behind her back, a worried expression on her features.

"Please," she helped him to his feet, guided him to the front door. Giving him a gentle nudge over the threshold, she murmured, clutching the shawl she wore around her neck, "Take care of yourself, my boy. It is only for a short time."

"Yeah, well, that's—" She slammed the door in his face before he could finish his sentence. Out of fear? Aggression? Disgust? He had no idea. Sighing, he wrapped his overjacket around himself and slowly trod down the steps, staring up at the cold, dimly-lit November sky; he began his walk back to the apartment shortly afterward.

The rider and its gruesome steed did not come back again, luckily, and as he passed a nearby bookshop he paused to stare at his reflection in the glass window. He didn't look a mess to the naked eye—in fact, he seemed just fine—but that was usually never the case with him. He could sense fear within himself, uncertainty, and he was pretty sure that he couldn't keep the aforementioned matter a secret much longer. Despite his strength, he was a very scrawny kid compared to the other middle-schoolers—only ninety-five pounds with his clothes _on_. Heck, Rusty had noticed straightaway that he'd put on some weight before this was even found out; how could he expect to keep it from anyone else?

He swallowed, eyeing his frightened reflection. What's more, how could he _explain_ it if anyone else found out? He certainly couldn't say that the Devil had knocked him up; people would think he was insane. Science dominated over spirituality now, and there was no possible logical explanation for this one. He turned away from the window, hands jammed into his pockets.

"Fuck," he swore to himself, kicking a nearby rock and sending it skidding into the street. He sighed heavily, then began walking again, head lowered; a cold breeze had come up. Perfect for his current mood, he thought.

What in Hell's name was he supposed to do now?

**_Well I couldn't tell you  
_**_**Why she felt that way  
**__**She felt it, every day**_

**_

* * *

And I couldn't help her  
_****_I just watched her make  
_****_The same mistakes again_**

Berry sat in the corner, curled into the fetal position, shaking violently. The room was completely dark save for the light coming from the crack under the door—which she had locked and bolted. Behind the door came Coco's muffled attempts to get her to come out, but she refused, pretending to ignore them, and drew her knees closer to herself.

"_Co_ co-co?"

"No," Berry replied sharply; she then hid her head between her knees. The air in the room felt muggy, thick. She wanted more than anything to just leave the entire world behind, but there was no possible way that she could do that. The House and all the land surrounding it was no longer a clean zone—demon spirits could drift in and out of here as they pleased and as _often_ as they pleased.

And Lucifer…Lucifer was _active_ again. Less than two weeks after the encounter with the Hellbeast and he was already raising some Hell—literally. She could see the images in her head, and, though the room was drafty, she could still feel the lick of the flames upon her body. She shut her eyes, trying to get it to go away—how she had loathed being down there during the time she'd served…!

Feeling drowsy, she lowered her body to the floor, curled up, and began to drift off. She had no luck in staying awake; why not sleep for a couple of hours to get the horrible things to go away? She placed her head in her paws, shut her eyes, and was just about to doze off when—

_Scratch._

One of Berry's ear tufts pricked, and she opened one eye. Even though the atmosphere of the room felt tense with another's presence, she could see nothing harmful. Sighing, realizing that this entire scenario was getting the best of her, she closed her eye again and nuzzled her head deeper into her arms.

She dozed off for a couple of minutes, dreaming about Bloo…the love of her life, one of the only reasons why she wasn't walking the streets abandoned today. Bloo was not necessarily romantic nor a real charmer, but she adored him for his outgoing personality, his strict sense of independence. Just being around him, watching him act like his usual outgoing self, made her heart melt from the inside out.

She rolled onto her back, still dreaming. The skies were pink with a new sunrise, and the fields were shimmering in the oncoming rays. She and Bloo were in the middle of it all, close together, Bloo holding her, defending her from all of the dangers the world and beyond had to offer. She leaned against him, happy to be here, happy to be alive—

_Scratch._

Her eyes popped open; she was now back in the dismal gloom of her sleeping quarters. Sighing, she got to her feet, looking around. Nothing seemed too out of the ordinary…everything was in its proper place, nothing was levitating, there was no blood puddled on the floor or smeared across the walls—

_Scratch. Scritch. Scratch_.

She lowered her ears, looked around. Where on Earth was that noise coming from—

_Directly behind her_.

Shivering, she quickly pulled away from the wall and looked up, at the strange Sumerian text that had been engraved into the wallpaper, wood, and dryboard foundation. It was in a different language, a language not of this world, but she could still decipher what it meant:

_I Believe in Mary Wilkes._

"NO!" she screamed, backing away from the wall. She got to her feet, then took off at a dead run across the room, toward the door, hearing all sorts of

_Berry…_

Voices, all sorts of

_Let's play, Berry. Let's play all day and never ever stop playing again_

Horrible voices, and she leapt for the front door, tightly clasping her

_WHO TOLD YOU TO STOP PLAYING! PLAY WITH ME!_

Paw on the doorknob, and, within a split-seconds' time, had

_PLAAAAAAAAYYYYYY!_

Flung it open. Terrified, she leapt forward and ended up clinging to Coco's leg, looking back into the darkness of the room. The lettering seemed almost ominous, shining in its dull reddish glow at the far end of the wall, and she could swear she could still hear the voices echoing in the room. Shuddering, she looked away.

"Close the door, Coco," she said, slowly detaching herself from the bird friend's leg, her gaze still on the hallway rather than what was inside the room. "You win. I've decided to come out."

**_What's wrong what's wrong, now?  
_**_**Too many, too many problems  
**__**Doesn't know where she belongs  
**__**Where she belongs**_

_**

* * *

She wants to go home  
**__**But nobody's home  
**__**It's where she lies  
**__**Broken inside**_

(_The room of the Victorian house was cozy, warm, as the little girl sat on the bed, her legs crossed and a large smile on her face, as Berry came into creation. The magenta friend was everything she had imagined—literally. Bright button eyes, a fluffy coat of fuzz, a cheerful smile—just like all her dolls and stuffed animals, only better. The imaginary friend looked around the room, wondering where she was, as the little girl leapt off the bed and rushed up to hug her._

_"Berry!" The single word that the girl cried out was apparently her new name, as a pair of fair-skinned arms clasped her around the neck. She didn't know exactly what to say, as the little girl let go of her. "Do you want to play now? We can play dress-up, and tea party, and—"_

_Berry could sense that this little girl was her ally, not her enemy, and replied sweetly, "That would be berry nice!" The girl picked her up, then ran over to her closet, where she kept all her best formal wear._

_"Let's play dress-up first!" she exclaimed, pulling a lavender ballroom gown off of one of her dolls and handing it to the magenta-colored friend. "Here, we can be princesses. We can go to the ball and have lots and lots of fun with all the handsome princes!"_)

**I…**

(_Berry needed a rest. So far the little girl had worn her out with her endless supply of energy, and she needed to take a breather—imaginary friends had feelings, too. She was just about to lie down when she felt a pair of strong hands grab her around the waist and lift her to her feet._

_"Come on, Berry!" the little girl exclaimed happily, rushing her over to the door. "I made a picnic outside with all my stuffed animal friends! Let's go play now!"_

_"But I don't—"_

_"I said, _let's go play now_." The little girl's features tightened angrily. Berry quickly nodded, her ear tufts flattening against her head._

_"Okay, okay," she replied. "Let's go have a berry nice picnic out in the backyard."_

_"That's my sweet wittle Berry!" The little girl gave her a tight squeeze around the chest, swinging her back and forth like a pet cat, then skipped outside to join her dolls and stuffed animals out on the back lawn_.)

**Believe…**

(_Years had passed, and nothing had changed—this woman was mentally insane, and Berry knew that now. She sat on her bed 24/7, brushing her dolls' hair, playing picnic and tea-party with Berry. Berry's cheery soul had already departed long ago, and now the maggots of decay were beginning to nibble away on her fragile structure. Her eye twitched slightly as she was forced to sit at the table across from the woman in the white dress, as she poured the tea_…)

**In Mary…**

(_It worked. The woman gave one final, blood-muffled cough, then slumped over like a rag-doll, her eyes wide as she landed on her back, staring up at the ceiling through glassy irises. The teacup she had been holding fell from her hand and rolled across the floor, stopping at the little magenta creature's feet. She stared down at it, watching the caramel-colored liquid seep onto the rug, her eyes slightly glassy herself as she glanced down at the bottle of rat poison she held in her hand._

_"What have I done?" she asked herself, her voice a horrified whisper. Dropping the poison bottle on the floor, she quickly turned around, hands to her mouth, and from the closet withdrew two small travel suitcases. Quickly throwing together the very little things she had left, she slammed the bags shut and fled from the room._

_The room with the dead woman._

_As soon as she had reached the exterior of the house, she gave a light sigh and stepped off the front porch. It was raining that evening as she left…the perfect weather to convey her current mood_.)

**Wilkes.**

(_And from each step she took away from the dead woman, from her house, she felt her spirits begin to lift_.)

**_There's no place to go,  
_**_**No place to go  
**__**To dry her eyes  
**__**Broken inside**_

**_

* * *

Open your eyes  
___****And look outside, find the reasons why  
**_**You've been rejected  
**__**And you can't find, what you've left behind**_

The apartment was still empty when Terrence arrived home. Sighing, he headed directly over to the couch and flopped down on it, still feeling light-headed and incredibly sick from the fact that there was a demon child gestating inside his body. Even though he was still virgin, he felt as if he had screwed with Lucifer and now had his dirty, cursed blood running through his system. He shut his eyes, sat up.

Dirty. So dirty…

He got up, headed to his room, and shut the door behind him, just in case Mac came home early—which he doubted. Removing his overjacket and throwing it on the floor, he then yanked his shirt off and sat atop the bed, sighing. His hands ran gently over the fabric; he heaved another sigh and was about to lie down again when there was a loud _THUMP _from outside.

He pricked his ears and sat alert, thinking that the demon knight was back, and slowly backed up against the headboard. The thumping came again; this time it struck the window. He could not be timid about this. Whatever was out there, he had to face it. He pulled his shirt back on, then ran to the door, preparing to give the knight a real run for his money—

It was Rusty. He was standing at the bottom of the fire escape and had been throwing rocks at their part of the apartment—of course; he'd been doing this for years to get Terrence's attention. Cursing under his breath at himself for thinking that the knight had come back, he quickly leapt off the fire escape and landed in front of his friend.

"Dammit, Rusty!" Were the first words he said. "I _told_ you last month to stop throwing rocks at the frigging windows! Mom was furious with the _last_ window you broke." He then sighed and straightened himself up. "So, what do you want? And why are you out this late?"

Rusty grinned. "Terrence, you're beginning to sound like my neighbors." He then pressed a manila envelope into the young teen's hands. "Your homework that you missed from your classes today. Just wanted to make sure it got to the right place at the right time." He shook his head and shoved his hands in the pockets of his leather bomber jacket. "Man, I cannot _believe_ that you're under quarantine now. That virus you have must really be something."

Terrence was greatly tempted to tell Rusty the truth—Rusty _was_ his best friend, after all—but something in the back of his mind told him not to do it; not now. Folding his arms around the envelope, he replied, unaware of how weak his voice sounded, "Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Rusty clapped him on the shoulder. "Anyway, the night's still young, and we've only got so much time left before it starts to snow. What say I get you outta this deep blue funk and we can go out to the muse—"

"Ezekiel!"

Both teens froze; Rusty quickly looked at his watch, where the sound wave transmissions were clearly coming from, his normally carefree features now serious. "Talk to me," he demanded. Terrence looked at him oddly. Ezekiel…?

"Ezekiel, our team is surrounded—" Static. "We can't get any—" Static. "Farther in. We need backup, I repeat—" Static. "Need backup!"

"I'm on it. Ezekiel over and out."

He lowered his wrist, then looked over at Terrence, who was staring at him in utter bewilderment. "Ah…" Rusty smiled and rubbed the back of his head; his carefree demeanor had now returned. "Sometimes, me and the guys…you know, from gym class…we like to go play paintball out in the woods near that Foster's place. Ezekiel is just a code name for me. Looks like my team's in trouble this time around." He smiled weakly, shrugged his shoulders. "I'm sorry I didn't let you in on it, man, I just thought that—"

"No." Terrence held up a hand to silence the blonde. "No, it's okay, Rusty. I understand. Go play paintball." He began to back up toward the steps of the fire escape. "I—I have some things that I need to work out by myself, anyway."

"We'll get together sometime later, then."

Terrence nodded quickly, heading up the stairs. "Yeah. Yeah, whatever you say."

"Okay." Rusty gave a quick, playful salute before heading down the sidewalk, running the direction of Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends and the woods that lay beyond it. Terrence waited until he was gone from sight before heading back into the apartment.

The blonde looked behind him, waiting for the apartment door to close. Yes. Perfect. He turned his head and began to run, his mouth now set in a thin line, his eyes narrowed in determination. From the sound communicator on his watch came another cry:

"Ezekiel!"

He raised his wrist to his lips. "Help is coming," he replied. "I just need some more ammo before we get this over with. I'll be there in another hour, tops."

"But Ezekiel, we can't—oh my _GOD_—AAAAAAAAAAUUUUGGHHH!—"

Contact had been lost. Baring his teeth, he ran faster, past Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends, past the woods, and headed toward the nearby city cemetery, removing several large amounts of money from his jeans pocket as he did so. The undertaker was still in; it was his job to watch the cemetery at night so that no one trespassed. On Rusty's part, however, he had made an exception.

Rusty leapt the fence, then bolted toward the undertaker's house, slamming open the doors. The undertaker, an old man in his late sixties, almost dropped his coffee, and, startled, he turned to look at the blond-haired teen. "What on God's green Earth are you doing—" He began, but he then recognized the features, almost as if Rusty were something special. "Oh." He swiveled his chair away from his desk, placed a hand to his chest. "It's only you." He swallowed, then looked at Rusty, shaking his head. "Don't you kids ever _knock_ these days?"

"There's no time. It's my team—" He whipped his head to the left, then the right, then back at the undertaker. "They've been surrounded and the Others are gaining fast. I need some more ammunition pronto."

"Very well, Ezekiel," the undertaker replied, a light smile curling on his features. He got up, walked over to the side of the room, and picked up a dirtied shovel, swinging it over his shoulder. "You'll have to prepare 'em yerself this time, though. I hope that ain't too much trouble."

"No, it's no trouble." Rusty smiled gratefully as they headed outside. "No trouble at all."

**_Be strong be strong now,  
_**_**Too many too many problems,  
**__**Don't know where she belongs,  
**__**Where she belongs**_

**_

* * *

She wants to go home  
___****But nobody's home  
**_**It's where she lies  
**__**Broken inside  
**__**There's no place to go,  
**__**No place to go  
**__**To dry her eyes  
**__**Broken inside**_

"'I believe in Mary Wilkes'?" Mac shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, confused. "What's that supposed to mean, Berry? And why were you so afraid of it? I mean, I can understand your being freaked out when the writing appeared on the wall, but—"

"You know _nothing_ of Mary Wilkes!" Berry screeched at him; she then wrapped her arms around her head, curling herself into a ball. "I—I don't believe it…they're going to send her back…after all this time, they're going to send her BACK—"

"But who _is_ Mary Wilkes?" Mac asked her gently. "And is there anything we can do to help you with her?"

Berry swallowed, then tried to calm herself down, though her voice was still a frightened whisper as she looked around the lounge, "M-Mary W-w-Wilkes was my…my…"

"Your what?" Mac looked over at her; she shied away.

"My creator," she finally replied, her voice still a hushed whisper. She leaned against Bloo for support. "It was decades ago, Mac, when I was created. She seemed like such a _nice_ little girl at first…" She sniffled. "Mary always wore a fancy white dress and tights and Mary Jane shoes. Her hair was a pretty coppery color and always tied back with a bow. She loved me from the start, this I knew."

"So what's wrong? Why are you so afraid of her?"

Berry drew a deep breath, shut her eyes. "As the years went by, she just—she just wouldn't _stop_. Stop playing tea party, stop playing dress-up, stop playing dolls, you know?" She shook her head. "Poor Mary. Because of me she was isolated from all of her other friends, driven into her own world, and as she grew up, I became her personal playmate. She still slept in the same bed, still wore the same white dress, the tights, the shoes. And I would always be there, waiting to play with her. I couldn't eat unless we were playing picnic or tea party. I couldn't sleep unless we were playing slumber party. I couldn't hide unless we were playing hide-and-seek." She clapped her paws to her face, now on the brink of tears. "I—I couldn't take it. I had to get away. This woman was—she was insane." She sniffed again. "So, I finally did what I had to do. We were playing tea party one night, and it was my job to make the tea. I gave her the drink and I—I _POISONED HER_!"

She burst into tears; Mac and Bloo turned to look at each other, then down at the sobbing magenta creature. Bloo seemed indifferent to the situation, but Mac motioned for him to go and comfort Berry now or suffer the consequences. Bloo gently reached down and stroked the magenta creature on the back, marveling at her soft fur, before choosing to say:

"It's okay, Berry. I doubt you're in any _real _danger."

Berry stopped, looked up at the two. "The next morning was the time I arrived at Foster's. I still hadn't fully recovered…I mean, I was happy that I'd disposed of that old broad, but…I don't know. Things just kept…coming up. I swear that one night, Mac…while you and Bloo were reading a picture book on world records together in the lounge…I—I almost _killed_ you." She drew away from the both of them her tufts lowered, her eyes glassy, and sat in front of the fire.

There was a moment of silence before Mac began. "Berry—" he began, extending his arm out toward her, but she held up a paw to stop him.

"No, Mac." She turned to look at the two, her features now grave. "You can't help me now. This is no longer a clean zone. The woman is bound to be in Hell by now. If Lucifer resurrects her spirit and makes it come after me…I…I just can't think about it."

"But Berry, we forgave you for all that stuff. And we can still help!"

"No, you can't." Berry waved a paw at them. "Now go away! Get out! _Out_!"

The two quickly left the room, and then Mac stared into it, watching Berry sit by herself in front of the open flames. If that story she had told them was, indeed, true, it was no wonder she'd acted so crazy the first time she came to Foster's. If she needed to be alone now, so be it, he thought, although being among friends was better than being alone. He took off down the corridor.

Berry's eyes had narrowed dangerously. "You know what I did, don'tcha? You want payback for it, don'tcha? Well, I'm _not_ going down without a fight. Mary Wilkes…I don't _believe in you_ now."

**_Her feelings she hides  
_**_**Her dreams she can't find  
**__**She's losing her mind  
**__**She's falling behind**_

**_

* * *

She can't find her place  
___****She's losing her faith  
**_**She's falling from grace  
**__**She's all over the place…yeah…**_

Terrence had already drifted off to sleep, but he slept fretfully. Lucifer had appeared to him in this dream, and, despite his hardest efforts to wake himself up, he appeared to be bolted in place. Just like last time, he thought, his eyes wide with fear as, from beyond the flaming landscape, a single figure emerged. It spread its wings, folded them, then stopped directly in front of him.

"Ah, well, if it isn't the boy." Lucifer looked down, gave him a cold smile. "How have you been feeling lately? Feeling a little…_under the weather_?"

"You know damn well what I feel, you bastard," Terrence snarled in response, lunging forward to grab him, but his feats were proven in vain; looking down, he could see that he had been shackled to the ground. He tugged at the shackles, but they refused to give. He snarled in anger as Lucifer approached him by a few more steps.

"I have heard, do tell, that you appear to be impregnated. What a shame!" He laughed, then folded his arms, his expression still disgustingly smug. "Do you know if it is a boy or a girl?"

"Fuck you!" Terrence spat at him, then added, just as angrily, "Why'd you do this to me? I _thought_ you said that that blow to the stomach took away my powers, not _impregnated_ me!"

Lucifer laughed. "Do you think I was going to tell you that straight from the start?" He shook his head, although he refused to stop and wipe that cold grin off his face. "No, my boy, it's much better to find out for yourself than for me to tell you straightaway." He straightened himself up, turned around; Terrence was desperate to get out of these chains and claw the bastard's face off. Lucifer continued:

"You see, my boy, long ago, a battle was fought for the possession of a certain Scroll. I had just fallen then, and founded Hell not long after the battle." He began to walk away from the teen. "We, the demonites, had won the battle, but we could not open the Scroll without the Lamb—alas! The Army of Light invaded our fortress with the help of that blasted _Lamb_ and stole the Scroll shortly afterward." He stopped. "Therefore, we decided that we needed something equivalent to its purity, its power, only darker. I have set out to get the Scroll again after millions of years, and I'm not planning to slip up this time."

He turned around. "And, my boy, this is where _you_ come in."

"How will bearing your child help, in any way, this pathetic civilization?" Terrence replied, just as angrily.

"It's not _just_ a child," Lucifer told him, looking down at his stomach, "Although it pains my heart to see him with such an incompetent mother. Nay, I think that he shall stay on Daddy's side this time." He smiled coldly. "I must thank you, boy. I never thought I'd find a vessel in time."

"So…you used me? You fucking _used _me!"

Lucifer nodded. "Guess you're good for something after all, hm?"

He snapped his fingers, and the light began to fade from the horizon. "Take care, boy. We'll keep in touch…until next time."

Terrence then awoke, drenched in cold sweat and gasping for breath. He waited until he settled down, that the whole thing was just a dream, then looked around his bedroom, looked at his door, made sure that it was closed. Mom wasn't home yet, and Mac had drifted off to sleep, so he was pretty much alone here.

Alone.

He buried his face in his hands and wept.

**_She wants to go home  
_**_**But nobody's home  
**__**It's where she lies  
**__**Broken inside  
**__**There's no place to go, no place to go  
**__**To dry her eyes  
**__**Broken inside**_

_**She's lost inside, lost inside  
**__**Oh, oh  
**__**She's lost inside, lost inside  
**__**Oh, oh…**_

_**

* * *

Lyrics © Avril Lavigne, "Nobody's Home"**_


	6. Nightmares

**SIXTH SUNDOWN**

**By Grand High Idol**

**V.**

"_Die_, you demonic son of a _bitch_!"

He fell to the ground, plunging headfirst into a ravine of wet leaves, and fired several shots in the direction of the figure. They struck the marker head-on, causing the figure—whatever it was—to walk around moaning for a few tense moments, then finally cease and slump to the ground, defeated. A chorus of victory cheers echoed throughout the woodlands, as three other figures rushed up to greet and congratulate the winner.

"Ezekiel!" Elijah, one of the other members in his team, exclaimed. "You had us worried there for a second, man—"

"I mean, you know," Isaac, another member, interrupted. "Here we are in the middle of the woods, just to find out that you didn't show up!" He shook his head. "Ezekiel, do you know how hard it was to fight that horde of angry monsters with just Moses and Elijah to protect you?" He shook his head again. "I don't think so."

"Hey!"

"Hey!"

"Was I _talking_ to you?" Isaac growled. Moses and Elijah obediently retreated to the front gate, which would take them out of the woods. He then turned back to Rusty. "Don't be late next time, man. We're counting on your skills."

Rusty sighed and brushed back his bangs. "Yeah, sorry, about that…" He chewed his lower lip for a few seconds. "Look, guys, helping you out is my main priority, but things have also come up in _my_ life as well. I just think—"

"Listen, man," Moses stated, prodding a finger in Rusty's chest. "You're the prophet Ezekiel. You're the _leader_ of our team. And it is your sole responsibility to keep things at peace while the Headmaster finds out what the fuck is going on out here. You understand?"

"Yeah, but—" Rusty sighed, knowing that it was futile to try and reason with his fellow teammates. He placed a hand to his forehead. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry. I know that tonight was one of our meeting nights, but…" He paused for a moment; he couldn't tell them about Terrence. "I—I got held up, is all. It won't happen again. I'll be here on time, I swear."

"You'd damn well better be," Isaac growled; he then turned around and looked upon what their handiwork had created. "Well, we'd best clean this mess up before anyone else gets out here. Moses, Elijah, come on down and help me dispose of the bodies."

The two walked down toward the ravine where Rusty had fired upon the last figure. Sighing, the blonde dropped the weapon he held in his hand, then brushed the leaves off of his bomber jacket and stared up at the sky, hands in his pockets. The moon was full—naturally, a perfect time for the renegade enemy to charge upon open ground like this.

He frowned, then his eyes narrowed. The Headmaster had selected him for a "special mission" of some sort, and, due to his trickery and sly skills, was the perfect man for the job—or so they had told him. His job was to seek out information—go undercover, of some sort—and report to the Headmaster immediately afterward. It didn't seem like such a hard task to accomplish, but he was being pressured more and more with other things in his life. And he'd promised his best friend that he'd come back and get together with him.

Sighing, the blonde buried himself deeper into his bomber jacket, trying to conceal the patches of red that had formed on his cheeks—and it wasn't from the cold this time. This was going to be difficult.

_Really_ difficult.

* * *

The next two weeks passed by slowly, and by the time Thanksgiving break from school rolled around, things were already beginning to look hopeless. Mac and the others had traced every nook and cranny of the library for anything of the Devil's significance, but had found nothing apart from the scriptures in the Holy Bible. Berry had refused to move from the lounge, and remained there still, wrapped up in a wool blanket; she had also taken on a slight bit of a cold from sitting in that drafty room day and night. She wouldn't let anyone near her; no one, as far as she was concerned, could help her. Eduardo was growing nervous, as were Wilt and Coco. Bloo…well, Bloo was just getting bored of the same old daily routine. Cerberus had refused to budge from his spot in the pen and was still refusing food; he had grown sickly and emaciated from starvation but never moved from that spot. Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends was beginning to turn from a fantastic, wonderful place into a dreary atmosphere, and none of them liked that. 

Terrence, meanwhile, was still under quarantine and hadn't seen Rusty in days—Damien, another kid from his class that he had met in the junkyard at the beginning of the school year, was delivering his assignments instead. Ever since his previous "visit" from Lucifer he had kept mainly to himself, only coming out of his room on certain occasions, and spent a majority of his time lying around and staring at the ceiling. Because of his oddball changes in appetite, along with the creature's growth continuing its process, he _had_ put on some more weight; thankfully not to the point where he was noticeable underneath his shirt and overjacket, although his jeans were beginning to grow taut on his expanding waistline. He'd made a mental note to buy himself a new pair of jeans once this was over.

In the background, he could hear the cheers and applause as the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade floated by—on television, of course. His mom was out, and Mac had gone to Foster's for his Thanksgiving.

The young teen sighed. Before this whole mess, before Dad was killed, they used to celebrate Thanksgiving together. And now, here he was, alone in the apartment, pregnant, at that matter, and feeling incredibly depressed. He knew that he had to find a way to tell Mac eventually, but he had to wait until the time was right. He didn't know what Mac's reaction would possibly be…

Whimpering softly to himself, he laid his head against the pillow and drifted off to sleep…

* * *

He awoke to find himself chained to a bed by his wrists and ankles, at the edge of a barren, deserted room, paying a striking resemblance to an abandoned hotel loft. The mattress underneath him was hard and uncomfortable, but that didn't seem to matter to his captor. She was standing at the other end of the room, washing her face in a dirty basin. Even though he could not see her features, he could tell for sure that she was female; her curving structure and pose made sure of that. 

She moaned softly, most likely from her thoughts of infinite sensuality, as she splashed one last handful of water onto her face, then tossed her head and looked up toward the direction of the bed. Terrence froze, a wave of ice slowly finding its way down his spine, as the figure walked toward him, smiling. Her ruby-red lips glistened in the dim lighting; her tail swished back and forth. Her tongue ran over her teeth in desire as she eyed the helpless teen.

"Hello again, Terry," Ancedonia purred seductively, licking her lips as she neared the bed. "Oh, it's been _such_ a long time since I've seen you, my beautiful…" She traced her thin, cold fingers along Terrence's belly. "Oh, and you're pregnant, _too_! How simply adorable." She smiled, then brought her face close to his, her arms on either side of his head. "When we first met in Hell, my dear, I was _dying_ to make love to you. Everything about your structure was just so perfect, so outrageously sexy—_rrrr_!" She hunched her shoulders and raised her head, giving the young teen a clear view of her large, full breasts; she then lowered her head back down to his.

"Oh, how I've _longed_ for this moment," she moaned. "I thought it would never come if you sought the path of the Devil's Apprentice. But oh—I'm so happy that you didn't! For now that Lucifer is finished with you, _I_ have full access to you now."

Recalling what had happened the last time he came into contact with Ancedonia, he gave a soft whimper of fear and strained against his chains, trying his hardest to free himself from them. Ancedonia smiled, that coy, catlike smile she was so well-known for, then placed a palm on his chest.

"It's okay," she cooed softly. "I won't hurt you…much." She broke into a cold grin at that last word, then, within a split second, she was on top of him, feeling him all over with her soft palms, stroking his hair, pressing her groin up against his. Eventually, she grew tired of this snuggle game and, reaching down, her lips never leaving his, hitched her fingers around his pants and, in one swift move, yanked them down. Terrence whined and shook his head, but Ancedonia's tight liplock prevented him from saying anything to defend himself.

The overcoat was then wriggled out of, followed by the shirt, leaving the raven-haired teen naked, except for his boxers—which Ancedonia easily disposed off. Now completely nude, and shivering with both cold and dread, Terrence watched as Ancedonia raised herself up over him, then removed what little clothing she had, revealing her muscular—yet unmistakably feminine—body. She pressed her hands to her breasts and ran her tongue over her teeth; Terrence could tell that she was getting ready for the main event.

"No," Terrence begged, struggling to free himself from his chains. "Please…no…" Tears began to brim at the corners of his eyes. "Y-you c-can't do this t-to me…"

"I can do whatever I want now, Terry-dear," she cooed, and, without further ado, pressed her lips to his. Hard.

Terrence whimpered and tried to struggle away, but the cat-woman was a lot stronger than she looked. Wriggling her naked body against his, raking across the inside of his mouth with her sandy tongue, she cupped his head in both hands and brought his face closer to hers. He could smell the pungent odor of smoke and perfume on her body as his face was jammed into hers; he could barely breathe now. Whining like a trapped animal, he tried to struggle away, but Ancedonia held him close, her grip tight around his chest, rocking back and forth as her kiss grew harder and harder, until she finally bit down on his lip with her teeth. Terrence whined in pain and tried to draw away, but it only made the situation worse. She gave a yowl of passion and started biting at his neck, drawing blood in the process. It seeped from the puncture wounds in his body and stained the mattress underneath them.

The teen squirmed underneath her, but she refused to stop; she was having much too much fun violating him to stop now. Giving an erotic cry, she cupped her hands behind his head and slammed it into her breasts, gently working them back and forth. Terrence struggled to breathe, and placed his feet on the inside of the cat-creature's thighs, trying to shove away from her. She took this as a sign of presenting himself, and, emitting an excited squeak from her throat, pinned him down. She then reached down and began stroking the inside of his thigh, causing a tingling sensation to shoot up the teen's body. He knew damn well what she was trying to do, and he was frightened about it. He groaned, clenched his teeth together, and shut his eyes, cold sweat dripping down either side of his head, his entire body shaking…

Giving him a boost with her strong thighs, Ancedonia forced him to enter her. She raised her head and gave a purr of contentment as Terrence struggled. The cat-woman wrapped her arms around his shoulders and gently began to rock the two of them back and forth, back and forth…tension was building up between them; both could sense it…it would only be a matter of time now…

"Scream," Ancedonia panted, brushing a wisp of wet hair from her forehead. "Scream, you _glorious_ creature!"

Terrence was openly crying now, tears streaming down his face, but he refused to give Ancedonia the pleasure, even though she was hurting him beyond comprehension. He could feel the semen filling inside him, knew that any moment he was going to come—and Ancedonia would likely come into _him_, as well—but still he put up a strong fight.

"You're wonderful," Ancedonia gasped, throwing her head back. "_You're so wonderful_!"

She thrust herself onto him a few times, then leaned down and ordered, sweat dripping from her temples: "Say my name. Say you love me. _Say you loooovvvveee meeee_!" She threw back her head and wailed again, overcome with sexual pleasure.

"N-no!" Terrence shouted through his tears, still frightened. Ancedonia grabbed him by the chest, snarling, licking the perspiration from her cheek.

"_Say it_!" she hissed angrily. "_Say you love me! SAY YOU LOVE MEEEE_!"

"I—I—I—"

Her fingernails dug deeply into the skin on his back, nearly drawing blood. "SAAAAAYYY IT!" she screamed, baring her teeth.

"Alright, alright!" Terrence burst out sobbing. "I _love_ you, okay? You're the greatest! Just please—" He sniffed, tried to wipe the tears from his eyes. "Please get _off_ of me!"

"Never," she gasped, and continued to ride him for a few moments more. Terrence whined, squirmed, and wriggled, but that only seemed to increase Ancedonia's sensual desires. Finally the young teen came, screaming in pain as he did so. Ancedonia shrieked in pleasure and brought herself down closer to him, swishing her tail, licking the sweat from his face.

"Yes," she breathed. "Yes! That's it. Now scream for me, baby. Scream! Satan _loves it when you scream_!"

"No!" Terrence howled; he began crying again. "Get off of me! Just leave me alone—" Ancedonia thrust herself harder onto his fragile body, causing him to yelp in pain. "Please! I beg of you! Just _leave me alone_!"

"Never again." Ancedonia laid herself atop him, gently caressing the side of his face with her sweaty palm. Terrence whined softly, as the cat-woman licked his neck, her rough tongue making quite the impact on his perspiration-drenched wounds. Nipping at his ear, she whispered softly, as the young teen finally gave way to the darkness that lay beyond the scene, "Not much of a virgin now, are you…?

"Are you…?

"Are you…?"

Her voice drifted away and, startled, he bolted upright, finding himself back in his own room. A sudden wave of nausea overcame him and, clutching his belly, he quickly darted down the hallway to the bathroom and retched up what was left of his dinner.

* * *

"Happy Turkey Day, everybody!" Wilt exclaimed as he lowered himself through a doorway, carrying a large, golden-brown roast turkey on a platter. The banquet hall was packed; foods of all kinds were laid out on the tables, and seated around the table were what looked to be every single imaginary friend in the House. He set the turkey down in the center of the table, then took his seat next to Coco. 

Mr. Herriman took his seat at the head of the banquet table, his hands clasped in front of his empty plate in a sophisticated manner. Nodding first toward Madame Foster, then toward Frankie, he arose and began his traditional Thanksgiving Day speech:

"My dear friends…my dear family…all of us have gathered here today to count our blessings and to celebrate how thankful we are for the lives we lead today. Today is the day that all of you should be thankful for Foster's taking you in, or else you would be spending this dismal November day elsewhere. A special thanks goes to Madame Foster for making all of this possible, and a special thanks, I do believe, goes to Miss Francis—" He eyed her, obviously annoyed; she stuck her tongue out at him in return—"for all her—ahem—_good_ work around the Home for many years."

He sighed and took his seat. "Now that all has been said, we may now dine—provided that everyone is present." He looked around for a moment, and then his gaze finally rested on an empty seat between Bloo and Eduardo. "Master Blooregard, Master Eduardo, where is Miss Berry? She should be here joining the festivities like all the others."

Mac, who was currently sitting next to Bloo at that time, raised his hand. "Um…Mr. Herriman?"

The rabbit turned to look in his direction. "Yes, Master Mac; what have you to tell us?"

"Berry won't be joining us tonight, Mr. Herriman." Mac's expression was grave, with a trace of worry, as he said the words. "She hasn't been feeling at her best lately, and she told me herself that she shouldn't be around the other Friends. Not like this."

The elderly rabbit raised an eyebrow, then sighed and responded, "Under normal circumstances I would demand you to bring Miss Berry to the table at once, but if she is feeling as horrible as you say she is…" There was a moment of silence. "Never mind, then. If she feels sick, she shall simply go to bed without supper. Miss Francis will tend to her after the festivities have ended."

"Thank you, Mr. Herriman." Mac smiled, then began to serve himself. Bloo had already loaded up on mashed potatoes and was now drowning them in gravy.

The eight-year-old shook his head. Typical Bloo, he thought to himself as he served himself a helping of turkey stuffing. He hoped that Berry was okay…and after what had happened weeks ago…

* * *

Berry felt great. 

She couldn't quite place a paw on it, but for some reason, she was feeling better than she had ever been in her entire life—ever since the day of her creation. She stretched out on the floor, sighing in contentment, wondering if she had perhaps died and had crossed over to the Spirit World, where everything made you feel wonderful…free of pain…of suffering…overall, her kind of world.

Her eyes still shut, she giggled and rolled over, taking in the warmth of the carpet underneath her like a small lapdog. It felt so wonderful, and yet it felt so…so wrong. Sighing, she sat up and opened her eyes, rubbing the sleep from them before glancing around the room. What she saw made her features contort in utmost horror.

She was lying in the middle of a living room in a Victorian-style house—only it wasn't Fosters. She recognized the large fireplace, the framed oil paintings, the collection of porcelain figurines above the mantelplace. She especially recognized the curtains…the frilly white, silk curtains…and the soft echo of the grandfather clock from down the hallway. She tried to convince herself that this couldn't be; she had to be dreaming, but it all rang true no matter how hard she tried:

She was lying in the middle of Mary Wilkes's house.

Trembling all over, she slowly got to her feet and looked around, pricking her ears. She heard nothing, saw nothing, and for a moment she thought she was safe; that the place was abandoned. Deciding that she needed to get out of here as quickly as possible before anything _did_ come, she quickly bounded over to the nearest window and attempted to undo the latches—

"Welcome home."

The magenta creature froze, as a trickle of ice seemed to slither down her spine; she turned around. Mary Wilkes stood in the hallway, her pale hands clasped together, her hair, face, and body in perfect shape. Her blue eyes sparkled happily, and a smile was creeping across her face as she eyed Berry. The imaginary friend wouldn't have believed that it were really Mary Wilkes if not for the fact that her body was levitating at least six inches above the floor.

She held out her arms. "My sweet Berry," she said softly, beginning to float toward the magenta friend. "It's been such a long time since we played together. I'm so glad that you came home so we can play forever and ever."

Berry crouched down into a defensive position, baring her teeth. "You're not real," she growled.

"I'm very real, Berry." Mary tilted her head to one side slightly as she drew ever closer. "I was your best friend, remember? We played for years, and we would've played forever…had you not made the mistake of mixing that _rat poison_ into my tea."

Berry's brown eyes widened. "You—you _knew_!" she exclaimed in disbelief.

"I knew too late." Mary's eyes seemed to take on a dull, glassy aura. "But the spirit sees all after the body is ruined. I saw you flee, Berry. I saw the fear, the hatred." Her features contorted into anger, pain. "You murder your own creator and you expect to _get away_ with it? Well, I'm going to teach you a lesson in pain…"

She lunged forward and grabbed Berry by the scruff of her neck; despite the fact that she was a wraith, she was unbelievably strong and still felt very solid. She held the magenta friend up to her face, her features now wild in fury.

"…That you'll _never_ forget."

"No!" Berry cried, and lashed out, trying to knock herself out of Mary's grasp. The wraith's grip tightened harder, digging into her skin and causing her to clench her teeth in pain, but she refused to scream—that was exactly what Mary wanted. She was brought upward, then flung against a nearby wall, sliding slowly to the ground along with an old oil painting of Mary's father. She groaned, holding her head, then broke out through the canvas and darted down the hallway, not knowing where she was headed, and not caring.

She'd do anything to get away from Mary Wilkes.

_Anything_.

"Berry!" She heard Mary's echoed, and almost eerie, shouts from back in the living room. "Baaaaaaaayyyyyrrrreeee…!"

Keeping her head down, Berry ignored her cries and continued to run through the corridors of the mansion. She quickly bolted up the steps on all fours, then, with lightning speed, bolted into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. The room was completely dark, save for a dimly-burning bulb above her. She sighed and slumped to the ground; hiding her head in her knees, weeping silently to herself…

Suddenly something grabbed her from behind, thrusting her forward toward the bathtub. She kicked and screamed, trying to break its force, but the unseen force holding her was much too strong. She could only stare in utter horror as she was brought above the bathtub, filled with a thick, syrupy, glistening substance—

—_BLOOD_—

—And immediately plunged in. She screamed and struggled, but her efforts were proven to be in vain; the force continued to hold her under. She tried to hold her breath but could not, and slowly but surely she felt her lungs fill with blood. She grew dizzy, knew that she was slipping into unconsciousness, but she also knew that she was very little that she could do about it.

All she could do was let the blackness succumb her.

She didn't know how long she was in that trance for, but when she finally awoke, she found herself above water (or blood, in this case), in the deepest depths of Hell. Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth to scream, but all that came out was a cascade of blood. A dark figure stood at the cliff before her; next to him Mary Wilkes was grinning evilly, her once bright-blue eyes now a furious red. The figure stepped down into the shallow waters and folded his wings; he was now directly in front of the poor imaginary friend.

Berry shuddered, backed away, tried to speak, but nothing came out again except a cough and another rivulet of blood from her aching lungs. Lucifer raised his arms high, then his gaze bore down on Berry, a gaze so cold that the little magenta friend was sure that she felt a chill, even in this immense heat. He spoke:

"So, my lovely little slave, we meet again. I was not very happy with your retreat to the surface." He lowered his arms and folded them, glaring. "In fact, I was not happy with _you_ at _all_."

Berry coughed up the last of the blood she had, then looked up at him, eyes wavering in fear. She knew that he could easily rub her out of existence with one quick flick of his wrist, and the last thing she wanted to do was say something that would make him angry. But what could she do? He had the upper hand here in _his_ territory…

She looked around, trying to find a way out, a weapon, something, anything, that would save her from this menace. Once more, her efforts were proven pointless. Nothing surrounded her but the lake of blood in which she was sitting. She looked up in time to see Ancedonia, looking jubilant and ecstatic, arrive over the edge of the ledge alongside Lucifer, a spear in one hand.

Lucifer turned to look toward her. "Ah, Ancedonia, my dear." He smirked coldly. "I take it that you had your fair share of fun with your visitor?"

"He's such a little whore." Ancedonia giggled. "Now then, Lou, what did you call me here for?"

"Well, my dear, it appears that one of our slaves has made an escape to the surface." He nodded in Berry's direction. "Please, would you and Miss Wilkes see to it that she is probably disposed of?"

Ancedonia looked toward the little magenta creature, then gave an icy smile and nodded. "Don't worry your handsome mind, Lou," she told him, beginning to advance on Berry. "Leave everything to us."

"I trust you." Lucifer then faded into the shadows, leaving Berry alone with these two demonite women. She whimpered as they drew nearer, and tried to struggle away. Taking trudging steps through the thick blood, she began to run, aiming for a nearby foothold in one of the ledges.

Unfortunately, Ancedonia saw her first. With a cry of "No you don't!" she withdrew something from behind her back, then flung it with uncanny skill. It struck Berry in the chest, burrowing deep into one of her lungs; she screamed in pain and released her hold on the ledge, falling back into the puddle of blood. Before they could go any closer, she looked down at the item wedged up her chest and groaned, her face paling.

A spear.

Giving a cry of anger mixed with pain, she yanked the weapon out of her chest cavity, causing blood to spurt from the open wound. Screaming, not exactly knowing what she was doing, for that matter, she dipped her paws in the cascade flowing from her wound and dragged her paws across her face, leaving dark red streaks over her eyes. She continued to paw at her head as the two wraiths drew closer, cold smiles upon their faces.

She had to get out, she knew. And _now_.

As if possessed, she made a single leap upward to one of the ledges and, using her blood, began to paint a circle around herself—a talisman, of sorts. Like a child in kindergarten she painted, smearing her blood across the rock, paying no attention to the dizziness she was suffering from all the blood loss. Ancedonia and Mary were gaining on her; she could sense them, and painted faster.

A streak here, a curve there, and now, one last final streak…

"Come back here, you _ingrate_!" Mary shrieked, lunging for her.

"_NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO_!" Berry screamed, then slammed down her paw and painted the last streak of the talisman, causing everything to go up in white.

* * *

"_NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO_!" 

The screaming rang through the banquet hall, loud and clear, and startling every friend in the room. Mac, Bloo, Wilt, and Frankie looked at each other, the same name appearing on their lips at the same time:

"Berry!"

"What's going on?" Frankie asked as they tore out of the banquet hall and down a corridor. "What's happening to her?"

"It's a long story, Frankie, and we didn't want you to know, but we'll explain everything later, okay?" Mac's voice was panicked as he said the words. "Let's just go see if Berry's alright before we get into anything more!"

Frankie nodded, her mouth set in a thin line. Turning a corner, they approached the lounge; the door was locked, but Wilt easily bashed it open with a kick of his feet. The screaming was ringing in their ears, so loud, so _painful_—

"I'll go in first," Frankie gasped, holding her hands to her ears in a vain attempt to drown out the screaming. "You three stay in the hallway, okay? And _don't come in_ unless I say so!"

The other three, huddled together, quickly nodded in agreement. Frankie took a deep breath, then ran into the lounge—only to slip on something slick and wet, landing on her stomach. The wind temporarily knocked out of her, she gasped for breath, then raised her head to look at the room. What she saw made her eyes widen and her mouth drop open in shock.

The room was splattered with blood, almost as if some type of massacre had taken place in here. The lights were dimmed; the floor was slick. In the center of the room a large symbol was painted, obviously bearing some religious reference. The stench of death and decay, along with the salty, coppery smell of the blood, invaded her nasal cavity.

And in the midst of it all was Berry, a huge gash in her side, her body smeared with blood, hands to her chest, head held high, and screaming words in a language that was not at all human. Frankie could only make out three words to describe this situation:

"Oh. My. _God_…"


	7. Mac's Disclosure

**SIXTH SUNDOWN**

**By Grand High Idol**

**VI.**

"Mr. Herriman…do you think she's going to be all right?"

Frankie Foster's voice echoed from the hallway as Mac, Wilt, Eduardo, and Bloo waited outside the doorway to Berry's room. The door had been opened a crack, and Mac, peering in, could see the backs of Frankie and Mr. Herriman as they stood in front of Berry's bed. They could not see Berry—hadn't seen her since she had been dragged from the lounge two nights ago, screaming, dripping in blood—and, needless to say, it was beginning to worry them. Could it be that Lucifer had attempted to destroy her and had succeeded…?

"I…I don't know." Mr. Herriman's voice was grave; he lowered his head. "In all my years here at Fosters, I've never seen a phenomena occur like this before. It is almost as if she has suffered…" He trailed off.

"Suffered what?"

There was a moment of silence before Mr. Herriman finally heaved a deep breath, then responded, "The Stigmata."

"You mean—?"

"The bleeding wounds of Christ, yes, Miss Francis. According to ancient historical records, the fifth stage in the crucifixion was a spear jammed into the chest cavity, at the right-hand side. I've tried my best to bandage her up, as have you, and after examining her wounds…"

"She _can't_ be suffering the Stigmata. It only happens to highly religious people, _not_ innocent imaginary friends!" Mac heard Frankie put her foot down on the floor—hard. "I don't know who did this to her, or what on Earth she was doing in that room when I found her, but they won't get away with this. I _swear_ it!"

"Calm down, Miss Francis. Until we find reasonable proof we cannot be judgmental of anyone at this moment. The only evidence we have so far is that strange talisman she painted in the middle of the room."

"The talisman…" Mac whispered thoughtfully, tapping his chin with his fingers. His train of thought was halted as Frankie and Herriman's conversation continued:

"She was in _shock_, fluff-butt. Who knows what she might have done to herself if we hadn't of come there in time?"

"That is _enough_!" Mr. Herriman's voice was harsh, strict. Mac saw him reach out a gloved hand and stroke the figure that lay on the bed. "We shall settle this argument later, but for now, we must allow Miss Berry to rest. She has had a harsh two days."

The four friends backed against the wall as the door swung open, and the thump of Mr. Herriman's footsteps as he hopped across the floor. Frankie followed after, stopping once to look back in the room, then sighed, shook her head, and shut the door. Neither of them had seen the group, and Mac breathed a sigh of relief before edging up toward the doorknob.

"Wait." Wilt held up his one good arm. "Are you saying that we're going in there right now to visit Berry? After what we _saw_ her do two nights ago?"

"She's our friend, Wilt, not some deranged—" Mac stopped in midsentence; pondered a moment, shook his head. "Well, she's _still_ our friend. And as friends we have to look out for each other, even if it means not liking what we see." His eyes narrowed in determination as he reached for the knob. "Berry got us outta Hell…now it's time to return the favor."

"I so scared," Eduardo whimpered, hiding his face in his monstrous hooves. Wilt gave him a gentle pat on the back for comfort. Mac closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then turned the knob, swinging the door to Berry's room open.

It had grown dark since Frankie and Herriman had finished tending to her; the only light that was in the room came from a lamp beside Berry's bed. Amidst the collection of pillows, stuffed animals, and bloodstained sheets lay Berry, her eyes closed, her breath coming in raspy heaves. She had been cleaned up—the blood streaks were now gone from her face and body—but she still appeared pale, lifeless. Every time she moved, she gave a weak cry, a sign that she was in obvious pain.

Mac turned to the others and put a finger to his lips, a sign for them to keep quiet, then turned to Bloo. "You go up first," he whispered to his friend, placing a hand on Bloo's blobby shoulder.

Bloo appeared surprised. "Me?" he asked, placing his hands to his chest. "Why me? Why not _you_, Mr. Nice Guy?"

"She likes you best. She'll be happiest to see you." Mac sighed, and then gave Bloo a gentle nudge in the back, edging him toward the bed. "Find out if she's going to be okay, and don't startle her, please?"

"You're acting like I'm going to jump out at her or something." Bloo sighed, and then rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine, you win. I'll go up." He edged himself up toward the bed, then placed his arms on the edge and yanked himself up, taking a seat beside Berry. Taking a deep breath, he finally managed to say: "Um…Cherry?"

Berry moaned, turned her head, then opened one eye partway. "It's Berry…you moron," she replied weakly; she then forced herself upright, hugging her knees to her chest. "Bloo…I—I couldn't be more happy to see you." She forced herself to smile. "How…how are the others? I know that I must have frightened…have frightened…" She wheezed, clutched her side.

"We're right here." Mac stepped forward, Wilt and Eduardo following suite. He heaved himself up on the bed next to Bloo, then gently reached out to stroke the magenta friend on the side of the head. "How are you doing? Are you holding up okay?"

"Si." Eduardo nodded. "We were worried about you."

Berry smiled weakly at him. "It's berry nice of you to care," she replied, then fixed her glazed brown eyes on Mac. "I'm…I guess I'm doing better than I was two days ago…I couldn't believe what had happened…I was—" She sniffed, wiped a tear from her eye. "I was so scared…"

"I know this might be slightly intrusive, but…" Mac drew in a breath through his teeth. "Can I see your wounds? I want to know something."

Berry looked at him for a few moments, then finally nodded and pulled back the blankets. "Look all you like. If it…if it helps…" She looked away from her body, as if disgusted by her own mutilations. Mac leaned over, then examined the magenta friend's body.

It had been heavily bandaged, but Mac was gentle. Taking great care, he slowly undid the bandages, exposing the bare flesh underneath. The wound had been cleansed and stitched closed, but he could still tell that she had been stabbed with a weapon of some sort. Tracing his hands down her body, he found that she was covered in scratch marks; her back was bruised with marks that paid an uncanny resemblance to human fingerprints. He shook his head in disbelief, then brought his eyes up to Berry's, gently turning her head back in his direction.

"Berry…" he murmured, glancing down at her wounds. "Who…who _did_ this to you?"

"Mary Wilkes." Berry's eyes were brimming with tears as she spoke the name of her dreaded creator. "Ancedonia helped. Somehow…somehow in my moment of subconscious, they managed to get to me, transfer me to the Spirit World, and—and—" Her voice broke; she turned away, hanging her head, tears dripping from her cheeks.

Mac understood her pain; understood that she didn't want to talk any more into it. Nodding his head softly, he reached out and wrapped the bandages back around her chest. "I'm so sorry," he said softly, laying the magenta friend back down on the pillow. She sighed, her eyes half-closed, and stared at him sadly.

"I'm sorry, too." Wilt appeared guilty as he said these words. "I should've been in there instead of out in the banquet hall. I could've helped you."

"No," Berry replied weakly. "No, you couldn't have." She shook her head. "Once dead, evil spirits are very powerful beings. You wouldn't have stood any better a chance against them than I did." She reached out a shaking paw, only to collapse back on the bed again. "Listen…I know what you're trying to do…and…" Her eyes closed, she sighed deeply. "I was into it, too. I didn't tell you, but…" She wheezed. "Check in the library. Look in the back. You'll find a book from the 19th century about demon possession and resurrections. I think that the answers to your questions will be answered…answered…th-there…"

She sunk her head into the pillow and didn't move. Her breathing became light, raspy. Mac lowered his head, then gently pulled the blankets up to her neck.

"Sleep well. I promise, upon my honor, we will never let you down," he whispered, before jumping down from the bed, Bloo following after him. He looked up at the others, then heaved a deep breath.

"Come on, guys," he said, firmly, his features set in determination. "Let's pay one last visit to the library."

* * *

"No, Headmaster, I have found no evidence yet." Rusty shook his head as he spoke into the receiver of his telephone.

_"Have you traced the entire area? Including the shorelines?"_

"Yes, Headmaster. But are you sure…well…are you sure that this isn't some kind of false alarm or something? I haven't sensed anything in weeks, let alone seen anything suspicious…"

_"Do not be fooled, Ezekiel. I raised you to do better than that."_ The Headmaster's voice was strict. _"You are one of my finest, and I expect you to live up to your title—just like your father before you."_ Rusty chewed his bottom lip, remembering the past generation. _"This organization is nothing to be taken lightly, and I do hope that you understand that."_

"I understand perfectly, sir," Rusty replied, nodding.

_"Good. And, Ezekiel, listen carefully. I have allowed you into our group—even made you leader—despite the horrible acts of your past ancestors. For a period of five years you have made me proud, and this could be our biggest obstacle yet. This information is _crucial_ if we want to nip this in the bud on time."_

"I understand," Rusty repeated, hanging his head. "And I swear that I won't let you down. I promise to uphold my title even if it kills me."

_"Good."_ The Headmaster seemed slightly less strict and a little more pleased with the blonde. _"Continue your searches before the Time strikes. Peace be with you."_

"Peace be with you," Rusty repeated, shortly before hanging up the phone and flopping down on his bed, his mind racing a mile a minute. His train of thought crashed and burned when a tapping noise outside his window made him jump. Rushing over, he undid the latch and yanked up the window—to find himself staring into the face of a freckled, brown-haired teenager.

"Moses!" he exclaimed, backing away from the window a few steps as so to give his teammate some air. "What is it? What's going on? You look really haggard."

"It—it's Them." Moses leapt inside Rusty's room, hands on his knees, gasping for breath. "They've come back, and apparently they aren't very happy about what we did to their allies. They're rampaging through the forest near that weird foster home—they've already taken Elijah and Matthew." He heaved a deep sigh; his green eyes burned into Rusty's. "We're not sure what condition they're in right now, but that's not the point. It's taking all we've got just to drop one of these things." He looked back up at the teen. "We need your help, and we need it _now_."

Rusty looked at him helplessly for a moment, then his eyes narrowed in determination. "Very well." He headed out of his room, down toward the direction of the basement. "I'll meet you outside, Moses. Let's take these bastards _down_."

* * *

"The back," Mac stated, squeezing past Madame Foster's reading desk. "Berry said that this book was in the back of the library, right?"

"Well, yeah, of course," Bloo replied sarcastically, folding his arms. "Where _else_ would it be? In the closet?"

"Bloo, I don't have time for your witty remarks right now." Mac raced to the back of the library—a tall shelf aligned with dusty books—and began skimming through the titles embossed into the spines. "This is serious business. Do you want the Devil to come to town again, or do you want to buckle down and help us out, here?"

"Why?" Bloo shrugged. "You seem to be doing fine on your own. I'll just stand back and watch you guys work, and if you find anything, just tell me." He leaned against the desk, looking up at his best friend. "So, any luck?"

Mac shook his head. "None yet—wait a second!" He reached up, then yanked down an old, leather-bound book from the middle shelf. It bore a strange symbol on the front, and directly below it the Pentagram symbol flashed in brilliant silver. He broke out into a wide smile as he eyed the book, then turned his head up toward the others.

"You guys," he exclaimed, holding the book over his head, "I think I've found it!"

"All right!" Wilt stated enthusiastically. "What about it? What does it say?"

"Whoa, whoa, wait until I open the book, okay?" Mac squeezed past the desk, gently nudging Bloo aside, then climbed up into Madame Foster's reading chair and opened the book. It was clearly very old; the pages were yellowed and were close to falling out. He turned past the author's introduction and title page with utmost caution, finally approaching the table of contents. Placing a finger on the yellowed parchment, he scrolled down until he found what he was looking for:

**_Chapter six: Spiritual Talismans and Symbolic Reference_**.

Flipping to that page, he found himself turning through various symbols—each one bearing some significance to either call or repel evil spirits. Flipping across the one Berry had made in the center of the lounge, his eyes slowly skimmed the text below the diagram:

_Talisman no. 7; religious reference: The Circle of Grace._

_First discovered by a Wiccan back in the early 16th century, a time when witchcraft was most eminent, this symbol's legend is believed to repel evil spirits and send the creator of the talisman back to safety. Many people who have been hopelessly captured by ancient demons have painted this talisman in order to escape the depths of the inferno. This talisman has been proven effective over centuries; however, it only works if the bearer paints it in his own blood._

"Well," Mac breathed silently to himself, "at least we know why she painted that symbol in the first place. Mary and Ancedonia must have dragged her down there somehow." He sighed, closing his eyes; now that he thought about it, Berry was lucky to have escaped when she did. Any longer in there with those—those _creatures_, and he didn't think he wanted to know what could have happened.

He re-opened his eyes and flipped back to the table of contents, this time searching for the real reason they were here. It was time to buckle down and get to business, or else face the wrath of Lucifer. He skimmed the table of contents until he finally found a chapter that he believed would prove useful to them:

**_Chapter three: Legends of the Inferno_**.

"Guys," he announced to everyone in the room, "I think I found the answers we've been looking for. Come over here."

At his words, Wilt, Eduardo, and Bloo obediently crept over to where the little boy was sitting and looked over his shoulder as he flipped to the beginning of chapter three. Since this book was obviously quite old, the text was written in a scientific-type manner and very difficult to read—however, Mac was a very smart kid and able to decipher most of what the legends mentioned.

That wasn't all that helped him and the others, however. Throughout the chapter were ink-painted illustrations, depicting views of the Devil and every single one of the demons thought to have existed back in that time—and, surprisingly, they weren't very far from the truth. Their depiction of Lucifer was slightly different than when they had seen him, but, keeping in mind that Lucifer was a shape-shifter, there was a reasonable explanation for that. He stopped when he came across a particular illustration—one bearing Lucifer looming over what appeared to be a young male, a strange-looking demon cradled in his arms. The male's face bore obvious fear; the illustration of Lucifer looked uncannily intimidating for just an illustration. Curious, Mac read the text next to it, then his mouth dropped open in shock.

"What is it?" Bloo asked his best friend, tugging on his pants leg. "What's going on? What did you find out about all this crazy stuff that's been happening?"

Mac flipped through the pages, skimming through the text and eyeing the diagrams. "I think I have a clue as to what's going on around here," he finally breathed, staring down at one diagram in particular. "And, from what this book says, it doesn't sound very good. At all."

"Why?" Wilt asked, leaning over the chair to look at the book. "What is it?"

Mac heaved in a deep breath, then said, looking down at the text, "From what this book says, Lucifer was actually a fallen angel from the time the world began. Furious against the Army of Light for his expulsion, he retreated into the farthest reaches of the Earth and founded Hell, creating his followers from the ash and dust of his surroundings. He overpowered them through fear, using them to build an underground civilization for the Damned. He later created the Seven Deadly Sins and the Undead Six to serve as his right-hand servants, but there was only one thing needed to finish the puzzle."

"Are you talking about—" Eduardo began, but Mac understood what he was getting at. He nodded solemnly.

"An Apprentice," he stated. "He spent centuries looking for just the right man to serve at his side, and he found one—Terrence." He shut his eyes, sighed. "Unfortunately, Terrence refused to serve for him and instead turned against him, causing the empire of Hell to crumble. Lucifer is probably reconstructing it as we speak, but he's also planning something much bigger and _much_ more dangerous."

"Like what?" Bloo asked.

"Well, it says here that every four thousand years, he rises from Hell with a carefully-arranged army of the Damned and battles the Army of Light for the Scroll—which you guys probably know all about." Wilt and the others nodded. "Well, this time he's planning something a little different, it seems. From what we've read in the Bible, the Holy Lamb is the only one that can open the Scroll and bring about total world destruction—but Lucifer has no such being to accompany him. Therefore, even if he _does_ gain possession of the Scroll, his attempts will have been in vain because there is no being pure enough to open it for him."

"So why does he even want the Scroll, anyway?" Wilt asked, placing his one good arm on his side. "I'm sorry, but that just doesn't make any sense. What good is this Scroll when you can't even open it?"

"Wilt, we went through this before," Mac replied, turning up to look at him. "And I told you that Lucifer can manage to nudge his way past anything. What he's looking for is a pureblood being, just as pure as…as…" He took a deep breath. "Jesus Christ."

"Mac!" Bloo exclaimed, taken aback.

"No, no! I meant Jesus Christ—you know, son of the Leader, healer, probably one of the most well-known prophets, half-breed of angel and human?"

Bloo stared at him for a moment, blinked, then shook his head. "Nope, sorry, never heard of 'im." He looked up at Mac. "Doesn't he travel in a magic show or something?"

"No, he doesn't," Mac replied through clenched teeth; he then waved his arms. "Okay, okay. What I'm trying to get at here is that that Lamb represents Jesus in his anthropomorphic form—just like the other four well-known prophets, but that's not important right now. What I think Lucifer is trying to do is create a similar being—only from darkness instead of light. But in order to do that, he needs his offspring to have pure blood in its system, or else it won't work."

"And just _how_ is he going to do _that_?" Bloo asked sadistically, folding his arms. "In case we weren't listening before, the guy is pure _evil_, here."

"Bloo, I want you to look back for a moment," Mac told him. "Think about when I was five."

"Yeah, I'm thinkin'," Bloo replied. "So?"

"Well, remember the time Mom took us all to church to see that Christmas pageant?"

"Yeah…"

"Do you remember anything from the pageant at all? Anything primarily important?"

Bloo thought for a moment, then finally smiled. "Yeah, yeah I do. I remember when they accidentally dropped the baby Jesus doll and it rolled down the aisle, and then the guy who played Joseph rushed after it, and his robes got caught on one of the pews, and it ripped, and everyone saw his tighty-whities—ha!" He broke out laughing. "Boy, what a Christmas Eve _that_ one was."

"Gee, thanks, Bloo," Mac replied sardonically, rolling his eyes. He then sighed and informed the little blue blob: "What I'm trying to get you to focus on, Bloo, is Mary. Not Berry's late creator, but Mary from the Christmas pageant. What do you remember about her?"

"That she was Jesus' mother, and…that she was really _hot_!" Bloo exclaimed. "Boy, I wouldn't mind meeting _her_ under the mistletoe!" He stopped when he saw Mac glaring at him. "Okay, okay, fine. But that's all I know, seriously." He shrugged.

Mac gave an annoyed sigh through his teeth, shaking his head, then finally replied, "Yes, Bloo, Mary was Jesus' mother. But, according to the scriptures in the New Testament, she was also a virgin—impregnated without the help of a man, if you get my drift." He blushed slightly. "Since Mary was a virgin, it meant that her blood was still pure—resulting in a pureblood being."

"Yeah, so?"

"So, I think that Lucifer has chosen to create this new creature by impregnating a virgin—and, judging by all the strange signs we've been having lately, it's not too far behind." He skimmed through the text again. "However, there are some expectations to be the one chosen to bear Lucifer's offspring. According to these records, the ancient peoples believed that the chosen one had to be a young virgin with a strong personality, and had made contact with the Devil before. It doesn't matter whether it's male or female, but judging by these illustrations…"

He eyed the one with the young male and the demonite child again, examining it closely. Lucifer looked different, the child looked different, but that young man in the picture…there was something so familiar about him. The raven hair, the slender body, the tapered jaw—

"No. Oh, please, _no_."

The others stared at him. "What's going on, Mac?" Wilt asked, a worried tone in his voice. "What did you find out?"

"Guys…I—I gotta go. Like right now." Mac quickly leapt down from the chair and grabbed his backpack, swinging it over his shoulder. "I can't tell you why, but it's really important." He ran toward the door to the library, swung it open, looked back at the other Friends standing in the room, their expressions ones of utter bewilderment. "You guys keep studying as much as you can. I have to run home _now_."

"But Mac—" Bloo began, but it was too late; Mac had already slammed the door. The blue blob hung his head, then looked up at the others.

"Any clue as to what that was about?" he asked softly. Both Wilt and Eduardo shook their heads.

"I have no idea," Eduardo responded. "I sorry."

* * *

Mac raced along the sidewalk, the cold December air nipping at his cheeks as he bolted. He shut his eyes and paid no mind to the cold; he needed to get home as soon as possible. Turning a corner—and nearly slipping in the process—he reached the block where his apartment was settled, then stopped, placed his hands on his knees, and drew in a few deep breaths. It was cold out; with each breath he took a puff of air came from his lips. He shook his head, then looked up toward the direction of his apartment window. He shook his head sadly.

"Oh, Terrence…" he whispered. "Why didn't you tell me…?"


	8. Anything

**SIXTH SUNDOWN**

**By Grand High Idol**

**VII.**

Terrence saw Mac from outside the window before he actually heard the knocking. Given his conditions, he really didn't feel like talking to anyone at the moment—especially his little brother. Quickly drawing his overjacket around himself, tears of shame beginning to sting his eyes, he bolted down the hallway to his room and slammed the door.

Mac knocked on the door to the apartment, then slowly pushed it open. The house was silent, all except for the muffled sobbing coming from somewhere down the hallway. His brow creasing in concern, he walked into the living room, past the couch, facing the hallway.

"Terrence? Is that you?"

No answer. Mac sighed, dropped his backpack on the floor next to the couch, and slowly walked up to where Terrence's room was. He tried the doorknob, but it was locked tight. Pressing his ear to the door, he could hear soft whimpering noises coming from the room behind it. Feeling slightly guilty, he knocked on the door.

"Terrence?"

"Go 'way," the voice on the other side said—clearly tear-choked. Mac sighed and lowered his head—if he was going to say it, he might as well say it now.

"Terrence…I know."

Silence from behind the door. Mac waited as Terrence finally got up, trudged over to the door, and swung it open. He looked miserable; his cheeks were still streaked with tears and his hair was a mess. Despite his misery, however, he seemed taken aback by Mac's response.

"You—you _know_?" he asked, bewildered. "Wait…know what, exactly?" (That was a stupid question, he thought to himself, of _course _he damn well knew what his little bro was talking about…)

"You know what." Mac folded his arms, then his expression became sympathetic. "Terrence…why didn't you _tell_ me? Why didn't you tell anyone else? We could have helped you."

"I don't need your help," Terrence sniffed, crossing his arms. "I got myself into this mess into the first place." He turned his back to the little boy, gripping the door with his hand, preparing to close it. "And there's no need to bring you into it."

He was about to slam the door, but Mac lunged forward and grabbed his pants leg. Growling in frustration, Terrence looked down at him, then his features softened. Lifting his head, he heaved a deep sigh and said, "Fine. Come in, little bro." Mac smiled and walked into the room. "But if you touch anything, you're frikking _dead_, you hear me?"

Mac gave a roll of his eyes before sitting down on the bed; Terrence took a seat next to him, toying around with his fingers, obviously nervous. There was a long moment of silence before one of them finally spoke.

"Terrence…this wasn't your fault," Mac finally stated, placing a hand on his brother's arm. "Lucifer did this to you because he _wanted_ to. You didn't have any say in the matter, whether you liked it or not."

"I know, but…" He sobbed. "God, I feel like such a whore…" He looked over at Mac. "I never should've even let that Soul Stealer bastard scratch me before you were born, and I never should have accepted to be the Devil's Apprentice in the first place. Just—just look at where it's led t-to—" He buried his face in his hands, sobbing, his shoulders shaking as he wept; he couldn't help it. Mac frowned, then, in an act of consolation, gently wrapped his arms around Terrence's waist, giving him a tight hug, nuzzling his cheek against the young teen's body. Terrence stopped crying for a moment to look down at him.

"What the fuck are you doing _now_?" he asked, his voice broken. "You trying to see how _fat_ I am? Is that it?" He growled and folded his arms. "Because I already damn well know how frikking fat I am!"

"Oh, please," Mac replied, removing his arms from around his brother's waist and folding them over his own chest. "You're barely even showing yet. You just look a little full, is all." He glowered. "And would it kill you to show some _gratitude_?"

"Maybe." Terrence flopped down on his side onto the bed. "Now would you just go away and leave me to myself, you little snot-wuss?"

"Much as I'd like to, I can't leave you alone right now." Mac reached out and gently placed a hand on Terrence's stomach, looking down at him. "How long have you been…you know…pregnant?"

Terrence sighed and ran a hand through his ebony hair, looking toward the ceiling. "Around four weeks, maybe five…I'm not keeping track." He looked over at Mac. "I'm due in around eight weeks, possibly less if the predictions are off."

"Terrence, what you're carrying inside you is a demonite child. A _demonite_." Mac forced a harsh emphasis on the last word. "If you give birth to that thing, Lucifer will have the exact token he needs to end life as we know it."

The young teen turned over onto his back, placing his hands behind his head. "So what do _you_ suggest I do, wise guy?" he growled. "I can't abort it. People are going to wonder what the hell a _guy_ is doing with an unborn kid. They'll ask too many questions. And how am I supposed to answer 'em? Say that I was knocked up by the Devil hisself?" He flopped back over onto his side again, curling himself up slightly. "I don't think so."

"Good point." Mac thought for a moment, then finally raised his head. "I think I have an idea, Terrence. I read in science class once that every nutrient and every chemical that the mother takes in goes directly to the child. In other words, when you devour all that strange stuff you've been eating lately, you're not only feeding yourself but the baby as well."

Terrence raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, I already know all that scientific crap. So?"

"So, I have an idea. Demonites can't stand holy water, right? So, what we do is get you to down a container of holy water. Once the purity reaches the thing's system, it'll be destroyed, thus ending your pregnancy, and Lucifer can't come back."

The teen's eyes widened. "Are you talking about—"

"A miscarriage, yes." Terrence looked at him in utmost disbelief. Mac sighed and shook his head. "I'm sorry, but it's the only thing I can think of."

Terrence remained silent, unsure of what to say about this situation. Mac patted him on the shoulder, then said, "Tomorrow is Sunday—that's when Mom takes us to Church. I'll try and obtain some holy water from the Reverend once the children are called backstage for Sunday lectures."

He looked his older brother in the eyes. "We'll get over this," he told him gently. "Don't worry."

Before the older boy could respond, Mac had left the room and had closed the door behind him.

* * *

"Okay, Terrence, this is it. Just drink it, and this entire nightmare will end."

It was late Sunday evening, and the boys were alone in the apartment. Mac had stopped by after Church to visit Bloo—though not telling him the truth about what he had discovered—and had raced home as the darkness set over the county, a vial of holy water clutched tightly in one hand. He had to hide it inside his jacket to guarantee that it didn't freeze as he ran up the steps of the fire escape, then entered the living room. He had now set the holy water on the table, and was sitting on the couch, Terrence sitting next to him, appearing rather nervous. None of the lights were on; the only source of light was the starshine that came from outside.

"Go on," Mac urged him, giving him a light nudge on the shoulder. "Drink it. You don't need to be a part of this anymore if you just drink it."

Frowning, Terrence stared at him, then at the vial that lay on the table before him. He knew that he should drink the stuff, but at the same time, he was have an inner struggle upon deciding which path to take. He didn't want Lucifer to win, but at the same time, it just didn't feel right.

"Drink it," Mac urged. "What are you _waiting_ for? Just drink it."

Terrence heaved a deep breath, then took the vial and raised it to his lips. He was about to swallow it when he stopped, thought. Mac waited urgently, his hands clenched into tight fists, waiting for the water to be swallowed and the nightmare to cease. Berry would be better…Cerberus would be active again…the others wouldn't have to worry about demon possessions and Lucifer returning back to the surface…

Terrence held the vial for a few moments, then his eyes finally narrowed and, with a sharp cry of "NO!", threw the vial to the floor, causing it to shatter. Holy water seeped across the carpet, absorbing into the soft fabric. Furious, he whipped toward Mac, his hands clenched into fists, his teeth bared. Leaping up on the couch, he towered over the little boy, who was now clearly afraid. He drew himself up into a ball, shaking, shielding his face with his hands.

"Terrence, I—"

"I've killed too many times. You expect me to kill _again_? Is that what you fucking _want_!" Terrence was enraged. Grabbing Mac by the front of the shirt, he growled, through clenched teeth, "It's already been done. It can't be undone. I'm not _killing_ this innocent creature for my own needs!"

Mac was jolted by his words. "It's a demonite, Terrence," he stammered, trying to pull himself away. "It's not innocent in any w—"

"You make me sick." He dropped the little boy on the couch, then jumped off and began to storm back into his room. Before he left, he turned his head and spit in Mac's direction. "Bastard," he growled, before approaching his room and slamming the door behind him.

Mac, still shaken from what had just happened, rubbed his head, then looked down at the broken vial on the floor. Watching the water seep into the carpet, dark thoughts flashed through his mind…thoughts of the Devil, the demons, the horrible things that were to come…

He shut his eyes as several tears flowed from his closed eyelids.

* * *

"Hola again, tress perro." Eduardo climbed over the gate that contained Cerberus, a heavy wool blanket draped over one arm and a bowl of soup in the other. His feet crunching over the frozen leaves still on the ground, he approached the spot where the beast lay, its tail tucked between its legs and all three heads down, their eyes runny, their ears drooping. Eduardo slowly approached it, then took a seat near its left paw, setting the soup down in front of the middle head.

It was the next morning, and Eduardo had gotten up early in order to tend to Cerberus—probably the only creature qualified as an Extremeosaur that he wasn't afraid of. He had felt sorry for the creature during the past few weeks, and had tried his hardest to make it feel better, but to no avail; Cerberus was under Satan's control, and there was no turning back until what was written was to become. That didn't stop the imaginary friend from trying, though.

"I bring you chicken soup and a blanket, in case you get cold," he stated, draping the blanket over the beast's shoulders. Cerberus grunted but didn't move; Eduardo frowned and reached out to stroke its paw.

"It be okay," he said softly, nudging closer to hug the beast around the neck. Its fur was cold from being out in the December air for days, but it didn't matter anymore. "I promise you that I make you feel better, even if es the last thing I ever do." He sniffed, wiped a tear from one eye. "Please…get better?" He stared into the third head's runny, glassy eyes. "Please?"

"Eduardo?"

The purple-furred friend looked up just in time to see Wilt, coming up from the House and carrying a large bucket of oats with his one good arm; he frowned when he saw the blanket and chicken soup that Eduardo had provided for the beast. "Eduardo, are you all right?"

"He not feeling good for days," Eduardo responded, burying his face into Cerberus's soft fur. "I—I so worried about him…" He sobbed lightly; Wilt sighed, set down the oats, and stepped over the fence to console him. Screw feeding the unicorns for now; they could wait until this was over. Slowly approaching Eduardo, he bent over and placed his one good arm on the minotaur-like creature's shoulder.

"Ed, I can understand what you're going through," he told him. "And, I'm sorry, but you have to let Cerberus heal on his own. We've tried everything we can for now."

"But…but he…" Eduardo sniffled again. "He es my amigo…"

"I know." Wilt looked toward the ground for a few moments, then looked back up at Ed. "But sometimes…sometimes friends just have to leave us, you know? Say goodbye." His good eye teared up as he remembered some of his past experiences; he quickly wiped it away. "I'm sure that Cerberus will get better in time, but if he doesn't…" He sighed. "Always know that he loved you, and always will, even in death."

"Nooooo!" Eduardo wailed, clutching Cerberus tightly as he began bawling. "I no want him to go! I want him to stay forever! Forever!"

Wilt reached down to pat him on the shoulder. "It's okay, big guy," he replied, and, not able to think of anything better to say, turned around and began heading back toward the fence. "Just remember…he loves you."

As Eduardo continued to wail into its coat, something within the dog-beast stirred. Its once-frozen heart now beating, its numb lungs now warming, it heaved a deep breath and opened its eyes…

"I love you," it heard the purple imaginary friend say.

Then a warm, wet tongue reached out and licked his face.

* * *

"Terrence?" Mac dropped his backpack by the door, the cold December air still nipping at him as the door hung open. Shutting it behind him slowly, he began to walk toward the direction of Terrence's room, but realized that the door was open—in Terrence's state, he surely wouldn't leave the door open, as that was a sign of welcoming. Sighing, he looked around, then called again:

"Terrence? Are you home?"

"Get out of the house, you runt."

Mac sighed, then walked out to the balcony of the apartment, where Terrence was currently seated, looking out at the town that lay before him, the wind ruffling his raven locks. He was wearing a windbreaker due to the cold; his shoulders were hunched and he sat cross-legged, staring out through the bars. Mac paused for a moment, then walked out and joined his older brother in his sightseeing expedition.

Terrence stopped looking out at the town to gaze at him; his features hardened in anger. "I _thought_ I told you to get out of the house," he growled.

"It's my house, too," Mac protested, folding his arms. "Besides, I _am_ out of the house—I'm out on the balcony with you, aren't I?"

Terrence was silent. Mac heaved a deep breath, then finally said, softly, "Listen, Terrence…I—I didn't mean to make you so angry last night. I had no idea that you felt that way about—"

"You don't know how I feel, period," Terrence snapped, drawing his windbreaker tighter around his body. "You probably think I'm some kind of monster, right? That I'd kill you once I ever got the chance, right?"

Mac blinked, then opened his mouth to state a protest, but nothing came out. He sighed and hung his head.

"That's what I thought." Terrence glowered at him, then looked out toward the town. "I might as well get used to it. Once you reach your teens no one seems to understand you at all. Why you do what you do. Why you say what you say. They feel we're misfits, cold-blooded, uncaring." He heaved a deep breath. "Well, we're not. We're just—we're just that way, you know? And over the years, no one's—no one's learned to _understand_—" He reached up to wipe a tear from his eye.

Mac looked down. "I'm sorry…I had no idea…"

"But that's not what you were getting at," he stated to the little boy. "You're wondering why I acted the way I did last night…why I'm mad at you."

Mac nodded. "Yes. I've seen you angry before, but…but you scared me last night. You seriously did."

"Because you forced me into doing something I didn't want to do." Terrence sighed, then looked down at his stomach. "Demonite or not, this kid is mine. I was chosen to bear it, and I may not have liked it, but it's over with now." He hugged his arms tightly around himself. "I can't just get out of this the easy way. It's no use, Mac. The only way to get this to work is to…is to…"

"Give birth," Mac finished grimly. "But there aren't any hospitals we can take you to—people will be suspicious. And what about painkillers? You're gonna need plenty of those if you plan to have the demon—kid—whatever it is."

"Shit, I didn't think of that." Terrence seemed annoyed, more with himself than Mac. Suddenly alert, as if that had reminded him of something, he turned toward the little boy. "You—you didn't tell anyone else about this, did you?"

Mac shook his head. "No. As far as I'm concerned, only you and I know so far." There was a moment of silence. "But it can't stay that way forever. I'm going to need to inform the others right away—"

"No!" Terrence grabbed his little brother by the shoulders. "You can't! I…I just don't think—" He blushed, afraid to admit that he was ashamed by his fertility. He sighed, then brushed a lock of hair form his face. "Do you…do you think they can help?"

Mac smiled. "Of course they can." He paused for another moment, then finally heaved in a deep breath and stated: "Terrence, I don't really understand what you're going through…not all of it…but I'll try my hardest to support you in your time of need. I'll do anything to make sure that you're kept safe until the…thing…arrives."

Terrence smiled weakly, removing his hands from his little brother's shoulders. "Anything?" he repeated.

Mac smiled and nodded, giving him a quick hug.

"Anything."


	9. Assistance

**SIXTH SUNDOWN**

**By Grand High Idol**

**VIII.**

"Ugh." Moses grunted as he pulled a spear from the creature's back. He tapped the head of the corpse with his foot. "These things are so revolting once they're dead."

"That may be true," Rusty replied, observing the corpse from all angles, "but as far as I can see it the only good one is a dead one." He turned his head toward a rotted log, where three of his teammates were sitting. "Isaac! How are things holding up over there?"

Isaac, who was currently holding a cloth to Matthew's torn arm to stop the bleeding, turned to look up at him. "They'll be okay," he called back, still holding the cloth tightly to his teammate's upper arm. "The first one only got Matthew by the arm, and after we inject him and stitch up the gashes, he'll be fine. Elijah…" He chewed his lower lip. "Elijah wasn't as lucky. The thing grabbed him from behind by the legs—I think he's suffered compound fractures in both." He looked down at his other teammate, currently lying on the ground and moaning in pain. Eyes worried, he looked back up at Rusty. "We need to get him medical attention, and _now_."

Rusty nodded, then turned back toward the others. "Moses! Abel! Ester!" he barked at his other three available teammates. "Drop your weapons and dispose of the bodies. Hide them in the wet leaves, or bury them, if you can. Moses, call an ambulance as quickly as possible. Abel and Ester, start confiscating the evidence."

Moses nodded quickly, then raced off toward the front gates to find the nearest payphone. Rusty sighed heavily, then approached Elijah, who was still moaning in pain. Kneeling down, he placed a hand on his teammate's shoulder.

"It's fine," he stated calmly. "Moses went to call an ambulance. You'll be treated soon."

"Ezekiel…" Elijah moaned painfully, his teeth clenched. "Can't…feel…my—my _legs_—"

"Don't try to move." Rusty looked down at Elijah's legs, which were ripped, torn, and damaged—but it was probably nothing a little surgical repair couldn't fix. A pang of guilt swept through him; he was supposed to be notified when They began rampaging again. If it weren't for that damned secret mission the Headmaster ordered him to do…

"Hey." Matthew's weakened voice interrupted his thoughts; he turned to look at the scruffy redhead. "It wasn't your fault, Ezekiel. Even if you _were_ there, they were—I just can't explain it. They were ravenous and they were plowing up the ground like mad, like they were…" He paused, his lips formed a tight line. "Like they were _looking_ for something."

"What I don't understand is why they keep rampaging in the woods near that foster home," Isaac stated, pressing the cloth tighter to Matthew's arm. "I mean, what's so important about something located near—ah—near—" He looked over at Rusty. "What was that place called again? I forget."

Rusty sighed, blowing a wisp of blond hair from his forehead. "Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends, Isaac," he replied, turning back to tend to Elijah. "It's a place where forgotten imaginary friends can be adopted again. Although I've never been to the place, I've heard—" He stopped, blushed. "I've heard…a _friend_ of mine at school talk about it."

"But I still don't understand," Isaac replied, his brow creasing in concern. "Why all these rampages suddenly? Why are the spirits more restless than usual?"

He looked up toward the treetops, where he could just barely see the flagpole at the top of Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends. "And why that Foster's place…?"

* * *

"Why is your brother so _fat_?"

Crackers, the tiny pink dog-like imaginary friend, hopped along beside Mac and Bloo as they walked down the corridor to the kitchen for a snack. Mac had informed the others whom had been down in Hell with him at the time what had happened to Terrence—their reactions were mixed. Frankie had stared at him in disbelief, Eduardo had nearly fainted, Coco had just stared, period, Wilt had put on a worried look and had chewed his lower lip, and Bloo had burst out laughing. The little boy didn't know why, exactly, but he knew Bloo well enough to know that the little blue blob got a real kick out of watching Terrence suffer, whatever the reasons.

Once the shock had passed, Mac had asked Frankie if she would help out—she was an expert on gentle care; she had tended to many sick imaginary friends in the past. She was doubtful at first, but once Mac had told her of the incident with the holy water, Frankie had allowed it. Of course, since she couldn't leave the Home, Terrence was forced to visit Foster's instead—leaving a note to their mother saying that they had gone off to visit some friends—and that wasn't too far from the truth. For the last three weeks Frankie had taken care of Terrence, and had pampered him like a rich lapdog. Terrence rarely bothered anyone in the Home; the creature inside him was guzzling down his energy like a car does with gasoline. He spent most of his time in the lounge, sleeping. The other Friends rarely disturbed him during his naps—one of them had tried to and nearly ended up with his hand bitten off.

In the past, imaginary friends had mated with each other, but Frankie, Madame Foster, and Mr. Herriman had always kept their pregnancies private until the little bundles of joy entered the House. Frankie, due to her past experiences, was an expert midwife, and for that Mac was grateful—at least one thing had been taken care of. Some of the newer friends, like Crackers, however, didn't understand completely beyond scientific means.

Mac sighed. _This_ one was going to be hard to explain.

"He's not fat, Crack—" he began, but Bloo cut him off.

"Are you kidding!" he replied, laughing. "He's as fat as a cow with a gland proble—" He stopped when he saw Mac glaring at him. "Okay, okay, I'm done." He stifled a snicker. "But you gotta admit it's true."

Mac cleared his throat. "As I was _saying_ before, he's not fat, Crackers." He looked up toward the ceiling, a reluctant expression on his face. "He…ah…he's what you call pregnant. Which means…which means, ah…" He ran his hand through his hair. "Which means he's developing a kid."

The pink dog's eyes widened. "He's got a kid inside him?"

"You could say that, yes…sort of."

"Does that mean he's gonna have a baby?"

"Yeah. In ways." Mac shoved his hands into his pockets. "Except this isn't an ordinary kid, like the other Friends at Foster's have had and what you might have seen on the streets. This one is…" He halted his speech; he couldn't tell someone like Crackers that the child was a demonite. "This one is special."

"Oh yeah, _really _special," Bloo grumbled. "Did you hear what he did last week? I asked him to get the remote and he snarled at me and chased me into a corner. I swear that he was going to bite me in half." He shook his head. "Man, what's made _him_ so crazy? Wilt told me that he nearly bit his head off for getting him the wrong brand of ice cream, then suddenly turned all lovey-dovey and kissed him on the cheek."

"They're called mood swings, Bloo," Mac informed him. "And it's not like he can help it. From what I studied in science class, mood swings are caused from chemical changes in the brain and the glands that cause the body to react to emotion." He shrugged. "I guess you just have to learn to live with it."

"I'll be glad when it's over, personally," Bloo grumbled, folding his arms as the three turned a corridor. "He's getting even more attention than _me_, for Pete's sake! Now what's wrong with that picture?"

Mac smiled. "It never ends with you, does it?"

* * *

Terrence rolled over on the couch, his teeth bared, staring at Coco and a fluffy orange imaginary friend sitting in front of the fire. The two were playing chess; so far it appeared Coco was winning, but the teen could really care less. What he was angry about was that they were in _his_ space.

He growled, his eyes narrowing. Well, he would fix _that_. Easy.

He cleared his throat; Coco and the other Friend paused to look over at him, confused expressions on their faces; Coco still held a black pawn in her mouth. The orange Friend, puzzled, asked, "Is there a problem?"

"You damn well bet there is," the teen responded, pulling his upper body off the couch, his shoulders hunched aggressively. "You're in _my_ space, that's the problem. You've got _three_ seconds to get out before I'm forced to do something _really_ not nice."

"We're not bothering anyone," the orange Friend replied; Coco nodded in agreement.

Terrence snarled. "One…"

"I'm serious, if we're being too noisy, we could always keep it a little more quiet—"

"Two…"

"Hey, I don't know who died and made you king, but this lounge is for everyone in th—"

"Three." Terrence finished his countdown, his eyes narrowed, his pupils beginning to redden in anger—despite the fact that the demonite child was using up most of his energy, he could still use a minor amount when needed. "This is your last chance, you two. Get out _now_."

"But we're right in the middle of a—"

_"GET OOOUUUUUTTTT!"_

The volume and tone of his voice were louder than the two Friends expected; the windows rattled, causing the glass to nearly shatter, and the room took on an intensified orange glow. Quickly, the two got to their feet and raced out of the room, leaving the chessboard and all of its pieces behind. From beyond the threshold, he could hear Coco's angry statement:

"Co-co-coco. Co _CO_!"

"It's fine. We can play chess some other time." The orange friend told her. "Let's go see what's going on in the arcade, okay?"

"Coco!"

He heard their footsteps as they left, then smiled to himself and rolled over on his back—that was one of the only comfortable positions for him without feeling like he had a twenty-pound rock chained to his body. It had been a rough three-so weeks for him—the creature was starting to develop like wildfire; his jeans no longer fit around his waist, and he'd had to hike them down about an inch and unzip them to get any comfort at all with them. His shirt no longer fit him; Frankie had offered him one of her pajama shirts, which was two sizes too big for him—perfect for the given situation. He rarely had any energy, he was eating things that even _he_ couldn't believe he was managing to force down his throat, and he had become so swollen that he looked like someone had jammed a good-sized beach ball down his throat. Sometimes Bloo came in to tease him; he'd attacked him several times but was yanked away like a common animal. No one rarely came into the lounge now that he had occupied it, and that was where he was happiest. The only ones he didn't attack were Frankie, who had kindly tended to him, and Mac, who had, even despite the holy water incident, supported him.

The teen wasn't sure if he was _happy_ that he had chosen to bear Lucifer's child, but something told him that it was the right choice to make. Taking the easy way out, he'd always thought, was for wimps. After his father had died he had attempted to jump out the window and end his—and Mac's—misery, but realized that it would get him nowhere. He hadn't attempted anything suicidal since, and he certainly wasn't about to kill just because it was easier—images of Chuck's murder still flashed into his mind, and he shuddered at their aspects. Chuck was an asshole and he had done it out of self-defense, but still…

He was feeling exhausted again. Heaving a deep sigh, he dropped down against the pillow and fell into slumber once more, hoping, for once, that he wasn't going to have any nightmares this time. He was interrupted out of his slumber, however by a voice that was strikingly familiar:

"Hi Terr-ence!"

_Oh no_, Terrence thought to himself, pulling the pillow out from under him and pressing it over his head. He turned his head to one side. _Please don't tell me that it's—_

Red. There was no mistaking the crimson block-like imaginary friend that was standing (if you could call it that) directly in front of the couch. Groaning, the teen rolled over, facing away from him—even though it was one of the most uncomfortable positions imaginable for someone with his stature. He pressed the pillow tighter to his head.

Red ignored this avoidant act and instead stated, "Bloo told Red that Red is going to be a big brother. He said that Terr-ence was going to have kid."

"Bloo's a frikking liar," Terrence snapped at him, turning around. "And you're _not_ my imaginary friend anymore, remember? So just _deal_ with it, you wuss!"

Red was taken aback by his words, and sadness slowly filled the crimson block's eyes. Terrence tilted his head slightly, then suddenly felt tears sting his own eyes as well. He mentally cursed himself for these mood swings, but it wasn't like he could help them. Finally bursting out into tears, he leapt forth and hugged Red.

"I'm s-sorry," he blubbered. "I'm a h-horrible p-person!"

Red once again took on an expression of shock, then, without warning, he hugged the young teen forcefully around the upper body, nearly crushing his spine in the process and pretty much cutting off his respiratory system. "It okay," he replied. "Red wuvs you!"

A flash then enveloped the room, followed by a familiar clicking sound. Yanking himself out of Red's grasp, he brushed himself off and looked over toward the doorway. Bloo stood there, a Polaroid camera in one arm, a developing photograph in the other. It was fairly obvious to deduce as to what photo Bloo had taken.

"Aww, how cuuuute," the little blob said mockingly. He waved the picture in the air. "I'm pretty sure that this'll look _great_ on the Foster's official website, don't you think so?"

"You little _bastard_!" Terrence leapt for him, but Bloo quickly sashayed out of the way and ran down the corridor, laughing. "Don't think I won't get you for this! Because I'll get you!"

"Not until the kid's born," Bloo taunted in a singsong voice, before turning the corridor and disappearing from sight. Disgruntled, Terrence whipped around to face Red, who was staring at him in utter bewilderment.

"Red," Terrence said through gritted teeth, pointing toward the corridor, "Get outta here before I'm forced to _kill_ you."

* * *

_They're coming closer._

Berry lay on her bed, moaning in desperation, twisting and turning in her sleep. Despite her efforts, she could not escape the voice that whispered through her dreams.

_They're coming closer. They'll never leave you._

"Go away," she whispered, her breathing becoming raspy and light. She tried to wake up, but she couldn't. She thrashed underneath the sheets, as if she were trapped beneath a steel net, and twisted her head toward the direction of the wall.

_They'll never leave you._

Panting, cold sweat dripping down her face, Berry finally managed to force open her eyes, staring at the blank wall of her bedroom. Her breathing slowed as she drew her arms to her chest, listened for noises other than the voices. She could hear Herriman strictly ordering one of the Friends to straighten a picture-frame, and Frankie's footsteps as she walked down to the laundry room, but other than that the room was silent. She heaved a deep sigh of relief and closed her eyes.

When she re-opened them she found something much less comforting. The words that had been plastered over weeks ago—the words that had been fixed and painted over—were now bleeding through the wall once more, directly near her bed. They took on a demonic red gleam, and a coppery smell began to fill the room as thin, bright red blood spurted through the letters, trailing down the wall in streaks. Over and over again the words invaded her mind, suffocating her memory:

**_I Believe in Mary Wilkes._**

Her breathing quickening, she clutched the blankets tightly to her chest, shut her eyes tightly, and began to pray:

"Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name," she panted, fear rising in her voice. She trembled and drew the sheets tighter around herself before she continued, opening her eyes. "Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven…"

The blood ceased its flow, but the words were still inscribed on the wall, fresh as the day she had first discovered them. Sitting up, now, she focused her gaze on the lettering and continued:

"Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us…" The lettering began to fade; she was so fear-ridden by now that she could barely choke out the last verse. "And lead us not into temptation—"

"_But deliver us **to Evil**_."

Berry gasped and brought the sheets around her mouth, looking around the room for any traces of demons or wraiths. Nothing; she could see nothing. Looking back toward the wall, she could see that the lettering had faded entirely; the only evidence that it had ever occurred were the drips of blood drying on the plaster. The room silent except for her heavy breathing, she slowly reached out to touch the wall…

When a horrendous, decayed wraith version of Mary Wilkes sprang from beneath the wall, directly in front of her, the wilted, maggoty face screaming in her ears. Gasping, she leapt back as the wraith gave her a vengeful, almost knowing, gaze, then vanished back into the wall.

That was the supposed time when she had begun to scream hysterically.

* * *

"He did _what_?" Mac laughed.

"Took a picture of me…doing something," Terrence replied, blushing in embarrassment. He shook his head. "God, Mac, you've got to get a leash for that damned friend of yours, because he's annoying me to no end." He sat up slightly. "Do you know what he did this morning during breakfast? He asked me if I wanted a nice raw piece of salt pork. I spent at _least_ fifteen minutes in the bathroom puking before I could go after him."

"That's Bloo for ya," Mac replied, stifling a giggle. He looked down and placed a palm on Terrence's stomach. "So, how are things going for you? You holding up okay, other than Bloo's antics?"

"Oh yeah, just great," Terrence huffed, folding his arms. "Other than the aches and pains, recurring need to use the bathroom, and overactive mood swings, I'm doing just _fine_."

"You don't sound very happy," Mac observed.

"I'm carrying the Devil's fucking kid, and it's starting to kick. Do you _think_ I'd be happy?" He turned his head. "Not only that, it also claws, too. It's developing frikking claws—OW!" He jumped slightly, then clutched his stomach. "Damn kid…"

Mac had still had his palm in the exact position, so he had felt it, too—only it didn't seem to make him angry. "Think of it this way, it's only a few more weeks," he replied, then pressed his cheek to the teen's belly. "What are you gonna name it when it's born?"

"It's…_not_…my…KID!" Terrence hissed. "I'm just a host for the stupid thing."

"No, you said it was yours three weeks ago. I heard you. Plus, you're gonna have to take care of it," Mac replied smugly. He waited in silence for a few moments. "Aww, I can hear its heartbeat…I'm also hearing something else." He straightened back up. "Do you think that you might be having twins?"

"What," Terrence replied, his voice taking on a tone of annoyance.

"I'm just saying that you look a little…well, heavy for only eight-something weeks. Maybe you're having twins and you don't know about it. I mean, it's not like you've had any doctor's appointments for this thing…"

"Oh, _God_, I hope that you're wrong." Terrence flopped back down against the couch. "I don't even know how this thing's supposed to come out. I don't want to think about repeating the procedure twice." He looked back up at his younger brother. "Now would you kindly _get away from me_ and we can talk about something a little more pleasant?"

"Well…" Mac stopped to think for a moment. "Christmas Eve is tomorrow, and unfortunately Mom's out of town on a business trip. She left you in charge of the house until she gets back, which isn't going to be for another two weeks."

"Your point being?"

"Well, now that she's away and thinks you're still in quarantine, maybe you could get out more, you know, like do something like—"

"If you say 'wild house party', you're dead."

"No, not that," Mac replied. He took on a knowing grin. "I think I know someone who's been wanting to see you for a _long_ time."


	10. Spill

**SIXTH SUNDOWN**

**By Grand High Idol**

**IX.**

It was Christmas Eve, at long last. Mac skipped through the fresh snow, wrapped in a dark red jacket and wool scarf, humming the tune to "Jingle Bells" under his breath as he headed toward the gates that surrounded Foster's. When he had first heard of the business trip he had been saddened that the family would not be able to celebrate the holiday together, but, after making some careful arrangements, he had easily overcome. Running up the front steps to the House, he opened the door and stepped in.

"Wipe your feet, Master Mac!" Mr. Herriman told him strictly—the little boy sighed. Two seconds in and already Herriman was ushering out his rules. Obeying what the rabbit said, he quickly scuffed his shoes on the front mat, removed his jacket and scarf, and ran into the living room, a small present tucked under one arm.

"Bloo!" he called out. "Bloo!"

The place was cluttered with imaginary friends—all shapes, all sizes; it seemed as if everyone had attended the festivities but Duchess. She was probably up in her sleeping quarters primping herself, he thought, and stifled a giggle. Not that it would help…

A large Christmas tree—chosen by Madame Foster in the woods and chopped down by Wilt and Eduardo—stood at the edge of the vast interior, decorated with ornaments, tinsel, lights, and just about every other ornament certain Friends had made in Arts and Crafts. A fire flickered in the fireplace, and all throughout the room Wilt was hanging up wreaths and ribbons—he had already draped some around himself. Coco was at the buffet table organizing the cookies and eggnog, and Eduardo was backed into the corner of the room, not really sure what to do and looking around nervously.

Mac spotted Bloo near the buffet table, munching on a gingerbread cookie and looking around, unamused. Smiling, he ran up to his best friend and gave him a quick hug, nearly causing the blob to choke on his cookie out of surprise.

"Mac!" he coughed, then quickly gave his friend a hug in return. "Merry Christmas, buddy!" He let go of the little boy, then folded his arms and added, skeptically, "Oh, and, don't _ever _do that again."

"Sorry." Mac removed the present from under his arm and handed it to the blue blob. "I got you something. Merry Christmas, Bloo."

"A present? Yay! Gimme!" Bloo swiped the package from Mac and tore into the wrapping paper, sending bits of tissue, ribbon, and cardboard flying in all directions (Coco became slightly peeved when the gift tag ended up in the punch bowl and almost kicked him in the head). What he pulled from the now mangled box he gazed upon in appreciation.

"The PaddleBaller 9000!" he gasped, his eyes glittering. He looked up at Mac. "How did you know?"

"You've only been asking about it for, like, five months now," Mac chuckled. He patted his friend on the back. "Hey, do you know where—"

"Hi-i!"

The two turned around just in time to see Red hop up, draped in Christmas lights and tinsel. He held up his arms. "Look!" he declared. "Red a Christmas tree!"

Bloo examined him over, then shook his head. "Nah, you're not a Christmas tree yet," he replied. "Why don't you just go plug yourself into the nearest outlet and then we can talk."

"Bloo!" Mac snapped, then turned to the block-like imaginary friend. "Red, do you know where Terrence is? I made some arrangements for him. I hope you didn't tell anyone."

Red nodded, then pointed over toward the fireplace. "Terr-ence in one of those chairs over there," he replied, then frowned. "He not nice today. Red try to get him some punch and Terr-ence threw it in Red's face."

"Pfft," Bloo snorted. "What else is new?" He shrugged. "Oh well. A party's just not a party 'till the jolly fat man shows up."

"I'm gonna go see him," Mac told the two imaginary friends, ignoring Bloo's skeptical little comment. "You two wait here, okay? And _don't_ try anything. I'm serious." He sighed and shook his head, remembering the last time Red and Bloo had gotten together—it took forever to get the glue off of the walls. Turning around, he began to walk to the back of the room, where, sure enough, Terrence was seated in an armchair nearest the window. He appeared haggard and even more irritable than usual; one hand was resting on his stomach, the other supporting his head.

The teen glowered when Mac approached. "Oh, great," he replied skeptically, crossing his arms. "What do you want _now_?"

Mac blinked, then tried to ignore what his elder sibling had just said. "Um…Terrence, I just came over here to tell you that…well, that you don't have to spend this Christmas entirely in exile. I did some walking around, and—"

It was then that the doorbell rang. Frankie, her hands full with gift boxes and trays of appetizers, sighed and looked over toward the main hall. She turned to face Mac. "Mac, my hands are kind of full, and Herriman's busy in his office," she grunted, trying to steady the weight of the packages. "Could you please get the door for me?"

"Sure thing," Mac grinned, then ran out of the room toward the front door, which he immediately swung open. Smiling broadly at the figure that stood before him, he turned his head, cupped his hands to his mouth, and shouted "Terrence!"

There was a moment of silence before Terrence finally shuffled into the main hall, rubbing his back and limping slightly due to his sore ankles. The look of aggression still clouded his features; they faded, however, when he looked up and saw who was standing in the doorway so casually.

"Rusty!" he cried happily, then quickly clapped his hands to his mouth, embarrassed. The blonde laughed, then stepped into the doorway onto the rug, loosening the clasps on his leather bomber jacket. "Wha—what are you doing here?"

"A little birdie told me that you'd been hanging around here." Rusty grinned, then withdrew a package from underneath his arm. He held it out to the raven-haired teen. "Here," he added, smiling. "This is for you."

Terrence was speechless for a moment, then slowly unwrapped the package and removed a dark red sweater from amidst the packaging contents—made from a mixture of wool and cotton, and just large enough, he thought satisfactorily, to conceal his belly. Taking no time to hesitate, he quickly turned around and slipped it on, then turned back to face his friend.

"Thanks, Rusty," he replied, blushing slightly. He frowned. "I'm just sorry that I didn't get _you_ anything."

Rusty held up his hand. "It's no problem," he responded, then looked out toward the frosty night. "Hey, remember that night out I promised you like, weeks ago?" Terrence nodded. "Why don't we do it tonight? The weather's a little nippy, but nothing too serious. I'm sure we'll be fine."

Terrence shied away a few steps. "I…I don't know…"

"Come on, it'll be fun!" Rusty grabbed his wrist, then gently pulled the teen closer to him. "You need a break from all this stress you've been under. I mean, Lord knows what you've been up to since I saw you last…"

Terrence bit his lower lip, then freed himself from Rusty's grasp and looked down toward Mac, who nodded in approval. Blushing even harder, he looked up at the blonde and finally replied, "Okay. I…I guess it wouldn't do any harm…"

"Great." Rusty smiled and headed back out onto the front porch. "Come on, the night's still young. Let's get going."

* * *

"Decembre the twenty-fourth." Lucifer scowled as he looked toward the rocky ceiling of his council room. "The hours that tick away before the anniversary of the birth of that _infernal_ Holy Lamb." He sighed and took a couple of paces around the room. "I gave Herod specific orders to execute the infant—that _fool_. I should have killed him myself while he was still harmless."

"Don't fret, Lou, honey," Ancedonia purred, placing one of her dainty hands on his arm. "What's done is done. And in not too long, we will have a Being of our _own_ to confront that overrated slab of mutton." She looked toward the other six Sins, flicking her tail. "Isn't that right?"

Five of them nodded in agreement; Frida, at the end of the line, sat still, her head in her knees, as if deep in thought. Her golden eyes were shut, and her breath was coming slowly as she listened to the others' words.

"You have chosen well, Lucifer," Algernon, a cockerel-type being with tufted ears and feather-covered arms, complimented.

Aremac, the Thief, darted across the room and wound his thin body around an adjacent stalagmite. His large, jackal-like ears pricked. "The entire Army of Light will be at our mercy!" he hissed, happily, the many necklaces he had stolen in the past jingling around his neck.

"Ardon _crush_ the prophets!" Ardon bellowed, nostrils flaring. He slammed a thick fist into the dust, causing the room to vibrate and several small pebbles to fall from the ceiling. Frida opened her eyes.

"That's right." Ancedonia smiled coyly, then leaned against Lucifer, gently rubbing her fur-coated face against his neck. "And we owe it all to you, Lucifer, for choosing that naughty little boy to carry the Messenger for us."

"I digress!"

The others halted, struck by the words that had come from Frida's mouth, and turned to face her. She was now standing upright, her feet apart, her hands balled into fists. Her tail swished from side to side as she spoke, her tone sharp, her eyes narrowed:

"Lucifer, I am as taken aback by the boy's betrayal as anyone in this room, but what you did was wrong. He's only a young child of thirteen. He should _not_ have had to gestate the Messenger." Lucifer stared at her with hollow eyes as she continued: "He didn't _deserve_ a punishment like this. Eyes gouged out, possibly. A couple of slashes across the back and belly, fine. But _you_ did something _much_ worse than that—you made him fertile with _your_ child. You said you needed a virgin—there are many other members of the Occult—full-grown ones—that would have been _more_ than willing to take that—OOF!"

Her response was a backhanded slap to the face, causing her to stumble and fall onto her back. She sat up, rubbing the growing bruise where Lucifer had slapped her, as the demon towered over her, his glare intimidating.

"So, you've decided to side with the boy, now," he snarled, nostrils flaring. "Is _that_ it, Frida?"

"No!" she gasped, her hand still to her injured cheek. "No, Master, not at all! I just thought that—AAH!"

She screamed as he slammed her in the stomach with his foot, causing her to slide back across the dust a couple of inches. Shaking like a leaf from the pain, anger, and fear that had built up inside of her, she opened one tear-filled eye as Lucifer approached her, then slowly bent down, eyes ablaze.

"You foolish woman," he whispered, a trace of rage building in his voice. "I made you what you are today. I gave you everything you could have ever wanted. Don't you _dare_ turn on me now." Frida swallowed and tried to turn her head away as the demon continued, "I'll let you off easy this time, my dear. But if I find you've sided with the boy…"

He stood up, towering over her, then spoke his last sentence, clenching one of his pallid hands into a tight fist:

"I will grind your bones to _dust_."

Frida nodded, and, as the others laughed and carried on with their conversation, she turned away and, fingers digging into the ground, allowed herself to weep silently, the sting from her injuries still coursing through her body.

* * *

"It's really beautiful, isn't it?"

Terrence looked out at the town, sparkling with Christmas lights and decorations. From down the street he could catch a glimpse of the big inflatable Santa the Mortinsons always put out in front of the apartment, and from even further he could see Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends, lit up with almost every color of Christmas light imaginable. He sighed and leaned against Rusty's shoulder.

"Yeah," he replied, lost in thought. "Beautiful."

They were in the town cemetery, right next to the Mausoleum. The moonlight shone down on them as they sat atop a flat foundation and gazed out at the city, only inches from being so close to each other…so close…

Rusty licked his lips, then looked over at Terrence. He loved the way his ebony hair gave off that beautiful sheen at night…how effeminate and dainty his body was…how lovely his face appeared to him. Touching him would be like sifting through the sand on the Beaches of Heaven; holding him would be like a dream in which he would never wake up…he sighed and placed his hands in his pockets, not wanting to think about it anymore.

Terrence, thankfully, shattered this awkward moment of thought. "Rusty," he asked, blushing slightly, "Um…why did you decide to spend this Christmas Eve with me? Aren't you supposed to be at home with your parents or something?"

"I dunno." Rusty raised an eyebrow, managed a weak smile. "Aren't you?"

Terrence shook his head. "My mother's away on a business trip, and my father..." He brushed back the tears brimming in his eyes. "My father is dead. It—it was my fault. I-I never should have…never should have…" He bit his lower lip and looked away.

Rusty stroked him on the shoulder. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. Terrence slapped him away.

"It's okay, really," he sniffed, pausing to wipe a tear from his eye with his sweater sleeve. He looked over at Rusty. "So…what about your parents? They too busy to take care of you, or are one of your parents dead, or what? I'm sorry if I'm being so…you know, personal, I just wanna know…"

Rusty heaved in a deep breath, then exhaled, a trail of smoky oxygen fading into the air. "You're my best friend, Terrence…it's about time that you knew. My mother is dead…she died in childbirth and they couldn't save her…at least that's what the doctors had said. My father took me into his custody and raised me until I was around three years old, and then—" His tone suddenly became defensive. "It—it was an accident. He died in an _accident_."

"You're an orphan," Terrence whispered, drawing his arms tightly around himself.

Rusty nodded. "I'm not bitter about it in the least, though. Shortly after my father's death I was sent to the town Foster Home and Boarding House, where I was raised by Helena, my personal guardian. She took such good care of me in those years…" His voice faded away as he stared up at the sky. "But my father _will_ be avenged."

Terrence blinked. "What did you just say?"

Rusty's eyes widened in shock, and he leapt down from the foundation. "Ah…it was nothing, really." He took Terrence by the hand, his hazel eyes gazing into Terrence's steel-gray ones. "Now, what say I walk you back to your apartment? I'm sure that it's much warmer there."

* * *

Terrence placed the key in the lock and swung open the door of the apartment, where he immediately stepped inside, out of the cold; Rusty followed suite. Removing his jacket to expose a gray "Iron Maiden" T-shirt, he sighed and approached the couch, flopping down on it, rubbing at his arms in order to keep himself warm. Terrence smiled at him, then shut and locked the door, taking a seat on the couch next to him, despite the consistent cramps he felt whenever he tried to sit normally.

Rusty was rubbing his back against the couch, very much like a cat does when it's comfortable. "Oh, man, this _couch_!" he proclaimed, shifting and rubbing his shoulder against one of the pillows. "You live _such_ a life of luxury here, Terr."

"Yeah, well, we get around." Terrence smiled weakly, then laid down next to him. Rusty's body felt so warm, so comfortable, against his. "Rusty…I…" He thought twice about what he was going to say, shook his head. "Rusty, I'm sorry that I didn't get you a present in return. Because I really appreciate the gift that you gave me, and…well…I just don't know what to say…"

"Say yes."

Terrence blinked, then noticed that Rusty's hand was now holding his; they were clasped tightly together in a way that made the teen's heart pound. He felt the other teen's arm encircle his neck, as his face was drawn close to Rusty's.

"Terrence," he whispered, "I can't hold it back any longer. Do you…do you feel the same way about me as I do about you?"

The raven-haired teen blushed hard, thankful for the darkness in the room, and for a moment the only sound in the entire apartment was the humming sound of the radiator. Finally, he responded, in a voice so quiet he could barely believe that it was his own: "Yes."

Rusty smiled. "That's all I needed to hear," he replied softly, and, without further hesitation, pressed his lips to Terrence's, wrapping his arms tighter around him, snuggling closer to him. Terrence resisted at first, but soon fell into the hypnotic spell of the kiss himself and snuggled closer to Rusty. He could feel the heat of his own body against the blonde's as they shared this private moment, then Terrence finally drew away, gasping.

"Rusty," he breathed, tilting his head in the direction of the hallway. "We—we need a place with more room. Let's go to my room and do this."

Rusty brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead. "Whatever you say, love," he replied, then followed him down the hallway, entering Terrence's bedroom. Terrence was already at the foot of the bed, smiling, his eyes glittering with a sense of emotion that he hadn't felt in the longest time. Rusty gave a roguish smile, then approached the bed, removing his shirt in the process.

Terrence blushed even harder at the sight of his bare chest—but should he risk taking off his sweater as well? Rusty was sure to notice, and would probably ask questions…but then again, Rusty was his most trusted friend and, as of now, possibly his lover. Was it really a good thing to keep such secrets from him?

Rusty took a seat on the bed beside him, then nudged him playfully with his shoulder. "Come on, you naughty little thing," he replied, his shoulder hunched. "Take off your shirt and sweater so we can continue."

There was a long moment of silence; Terrence began trembling, unsure of what exactly to say or do in response to this statement. Rusty noticed and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. "Terr, is something wrong? You're shaking like a leaf."

"It's—I—it's—"

"You know, if you're uncomfortable with this, we can always stop any time you want," Rusty told him softly. "I probably _did_ come on to you a little hard back there, but I just—"

"No." Terrence placed his hand over Rusty's. "There's just…there's just been something I've been trying to keep from you. But after all we've been through, I realize that I can't hold it back any longer. Rusty…" He bit his lower lip again, cursing himself for the following two words that would leave his lips: "I'm pregnant."

Rusty's mouth dropped open as Terrence slowly removed his sweater, giving the older teen a better look at his stomach. The blonde was shocked silent for a few moments, then finally replied, his voice as shocked as his face was: "Pregnant? I—what—how long?"

"For almost two months now," the raven-haired teen replied, gently leaning himself against Rusty's chest. "The vomiting—the blood—the bloating—you were right. It wasn't just an after-effect…it was…it was something different the entire time."

"Well, that _does_ explain why you were able to stand the cafeteria food…"

Terrence broke down into tears, shaking as Rusty held him. "I'm so ashamed…I know it's crazy, I know that it doesn't make sense, but I—but I—"

"It's okay." Rusty gently stroked his hair, then brought Terrence's face up to his. "Who did this to you?"

"Lucifer," Terrence managed to sob out. Rusty's eyes grew wide when the name reached his ears.

"Lucifer?" he repeated. "The Devil? But why? Are you serious?"

"Dead serious." Terrence choked back a sob. "I did something he didn't like, and…and this was his punishment for me. I don't even know what I'm having, but I—oh _God_!" He resumed his fit of sobbing; Rusty reached out to comfort him.

"It's okay," he whispered softly, running his fingers through the teen's ebony hair. "It'll turn out alright. It always does." He kissed him gently on the cheek. "Now, do you want me to leave you, now? You look like you need to be to yourself."

"N-no," Terrence replied, hugging Rusty tightly, nuzzling the side of his head against the blonde's neck. "D-don't leave me…"

"I never will." Rusty wrapped his arms around Terrence in return, and the two gently kissed each other, flopping down on the bed. As they snuggled, gently removing one another's garments, the faint songs of the carolers whispered through the window and out into the night...

* * *

Rusty awoke next morning amidst a tangle of bedsheets, clad in only his boxer shorts. Terrence lay beside him, his breathing soft, obviously still in a deep slumber. Rusty smiled, then slowly got out of bed and began searching for his clothing, which he put on rather hastily as so not to waste any time. Looking down at his sleeping angel, he bent down and gave Terrence a quick kiss on the cheek before slowly approaching the door, opening it carefully and shutting it behind him.

He heaved a deep breath. It was still early in the day, as he could tell from the sunlight filtering through the window. Pacing across the room, he grabbed his coat, wrapped it around himself, and quickly ran out of the apartment, down the fire escape. Once he was within a clear range, he heaved a deep sigh, then pulled back his sleeve.

"Father," he murmured into the speech mechanism, his hand cupped over his mouth. "Father, are you there?"

There was a crackling noise from the other end of the line, then a deep, husky voice responded. "_Yes, I am. What is your cause for contact, Ezekiel?_"

"Father, my mission has been accomplished," Rusty said firmly. "I now know who bears the Messenger. It doesn't look like it's too far away, either, so get ready to rumble."

_"Ezekiel, please do not use that slang with me."_ There was a pause at the other end of the line. _"And, good work. I will make sure you are handsomely rewarded for your efforts."_

"Thank you, Father," Rusty replied, bowing his head. "I just have one request for you."

_"And what may that be?"_

"Promise not to hurt the Bearer. Not now, not ever."

_"Ezekiel, you know that I cannot promise such things."_ Rusty's head lowered slightly in defeat. _"But come back to Headquarters and we can discuss this. Over and out."_

"Right," Rusty murmured, pulling his sleeve back down and looking toward the sky. "Over and out."


	11. Frida's Secrets

**SIXTH SUNDOWN**

**By Grand High Idol**

**X.**

It loved its mother.

Sure, it didn't know what exactly its mother looked like, nor how kind its mother was going to be once the time came. But almost three months had passed without any significance; the little being had not been poisoned, aborted, or hurt in any way. It had spent its days floating carefree in the warm fluids of the tough sac nestled within its mother's innards, dreaming silent dreams, thinking silent thoughts. Even it was not sure what went through its mind as it slept. It didn't care. It was in its own little world, and life, as it knew it, was beautiful.

It stretched its legs, its lungs unable to work in the thick fluid—it would have sighed in contentment if that were the case—then curled up into the small ball it had been resting in for so many days. Silently, eyes closed, it could hear its mother's heartbeat echoing through the cellular walls of the sac, which soothed it and, frequently, lulled it to sleep on occasions. Here it was, not even out of its mother's body yet, and it could already feel passion.

Its front paws—bearing razor-sharp claws, which had often irritated its mother for so long—twitched slightly, and one eye opened, gazing through the thick fluid that kept it warm and safe.

It wouldn't be long now, it knew.

Daddy was calling.

* * *

Berry knew it was coming.

And she knew that Cerberus could sense it, too.

She sat outside, perched on Cerberus's paw, wearing a bright pink sweater that she had knitted herself only a few months ago—before all this haunting began. Cerberus laid on the frosty ground, breathing softly, its three heads lying in the powdery snow. Berry gently laid a paw on the dog beast's right front head, looking out at the town beyond Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends, waiting, wondering.

She knew all about Terrence, had heard Frankie and Mac talking about it in the kitchen when she had fled from the room in which Mary Wilkes's vengeful spirit stalked. And now she knew what was happening, and why things were not going as they normally would.

Lucifer, after surviving the encounter with the Hellbeast, had apparently located Foster's through her or Cerberus and had set up a portal there—through which his new army would come. As a result, this was no longer "clean" ground—demons could pass through here, come and go just as they pleased. But he couldn't have opened the portal without first selecting some unfortunate soul to bear the Messenger—the one that would cause all Hell to break loose, and literally, at that. When Berry had found out that Terrence had been selected…

It had been going at this rate for a long time; almost three months. Three months was the normal gestation period, or so she had researched, when she was down in Hell, for a demonite. How disgusting they were; how they writhed and squirmed on the ground after birth like oversized maggots, their tentacles flailing, their wings coating with dust, their tooth-filled mouths opening and closing…! She shuddered as she remembered this.

But, despite all that happened, she felt safe when she was alongside Cerberus. The poor dog had been suffering just as much as she had—more from sickness than from hauntings—and, although he was weak now, he would protect her and all the others once he came back to full strength…after the Messenger was born.

A soft gust of wind blew by, ruffling her fur, as she slowly placed her other paw on Cerberus's neck. Her brown eyes continued to stare out at the town…the town, so peaceful, not knowing the horrible events that were to come, not caring of the horrible omens that haunted this place. It was too late for them. The writing was on the wall, and there was no undoing what had already been done.

A tear slid down her face, and she buried her head in Cerberus's fur to dry them. Those poor people…those poor, unsuspecting people…so many would die, so many would suffer…she couldn't bear to think about it.

"Cerberus," she whispered into the dog's ear; the beast responded with a low grunting sound. "Cerberus, I can sense it. Can't you sense it? Can't you feel it in the air, in the soil, in our very _souls_?"

The dog beast opened one of its mouths, stifled a yawn, and then slumped back down to the ground. Berry stared at him for a few moments, then looked out at the town, a worried expression now set on her features. Another breeze blew by, causing her to shiver. She sat atop Cerberus's paw and wrapped her arms tightly around herself, her gaze traveling from the town down to the frosty ground.

"God damn you, Lucifer," she whispered to herself, tears brimming her eyes. "God damn you a thousand fold."

* * *

"Here, Frankie," Mac insisted, reaching out a hand to the redhead. "Let me help you with those dishes."

Frankie heaved a deep breath, then leaned over and let the little boy take his share of the dishes before they continued into the kitchen. "Thanks, Mac," she replied, steadying the plates in one hand to wipe her brow with the other. "You're a real lifesaver. Ever since that big New Year's party that Grandma and Bloo threw things have been getting _way_ out of hand."

Mac took a wobbly step forward, trying to steady the stack of dishes he now held in his arms. He laughed. "Yeah, that was one wild party, all right," he stated. "And I managed to make it through the whole night without a single spoonful of sugar."

Frankie smiled. "Sugar is to you what whiskey is to Creaky Pete. Makes you both go nuts." She kicked open the kitchen door with her foot, pressing herself against one of the swinging doors so that the little boy could pass through. "I just can't believe that a whole year just passed by so quickly…I mean, in the fall you come to Foster's, and…" She looked toward the ceiling, pondering. "And…well, it's just suddenly a whole new year and things keep going like they always have." She looked down at the little boy and smiled. "Except for you and Bloo, of course."

Mac smiled. "And is that a bad thing?"

Frankie laughed, removing herself from the door as the two walked into the kitchen together. "Heavens no!" she proclaimed. "If at all, you and Bloo were two of the best things to happen to Foster's in a _long_ time."

"We're really that important?" Mac asked, setting the dishes down near the sink.

"Well…" Frankie set her stack down, then brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead. "In my eyes, you are. Things sure livened up around here when you and Bloo first arrived at that door in early October. And by livened up, I mean like _really_ livened up." She smiled, then rolled up her sleeves and grabbed a container of dish soap. "Well, time to wash the dishes. Again." She turned her head toward the little brown-haired boy. "Wanna help me, Mac? I want to know what's been going on with you lately."

"Sure!" Mac exclaimed; he then ran across the kitchen, grabbed one of the nearest stools that he could find, and pushed it over toward the sink, positioning it next to Frankie. He struggled up the stool, rolled up his sleeves, then grabbed one of the dishes and submerged it into the soapy water. Frankie handed him a scouring pad.

"Now remember, you have to scrub in circles and get every little stain, or else Mr. Herriman will get really cheesed off," she reminded him. Mac nodded and began to scrub. "So, how are things going for you? Anything up with school?"

"Richie is still bragging about Blake Superior," Mac sighed, rolling his eyes. "Even _after_ he lost the Imaginary Friend competition, he still thinks that his friend is better than anything else on the planet. I mean, I know that we all think that once and a while, but you don't have to go about spouting it off twenty-four seven…" Frankie looked at him, a small grin playing on the corner of her lips. "Oh, and, I got an A on my last math test," he added sheepishly.

"That's great." Frankie grabbed a dishtowel from a nearby rack. "And what about your brother…Terrence? How's he holding up?"

"Well, I think that his belly's finally stopped growing, but he refuses to leave the apartment. This was pretty much a big problem until Rusty offered to watch him while I was over here, and so far it's proven pretty effective."

"Rusty?" Frankie repeated, setting the dry dish in its place. "Who's Rusty?"

"A friend of Terrence's," Mac responded, handing his scrubbed dish over to Frankie. "He's really nice, but he's also…well…really weird. What I mean is, he acts really friendly, but he's always doing things like he has something to hide." The little boy sighed, then grabbed another dirty dish from the stack. "I don't know much about him, besides that."

Frankie cocked an eyebrow. "Aren't his parents concerned about where he's going all this time? I mean, he's stuck there day _and_ night watching Terrence?"

Mac bit his lower lip. "He doesn't _have_ any parents, Frankie," he finally replied, solemnly. "Both of them died when he was really young—around my age, I think. He lives over at The Brink, a place for orphaned minors."

"Oh…" The room was silent for a few moments. "That's terrible."

"I know. I don't know what I would do if I were to lose my mom," Mac responded, sighing. "Not that she's ever there, anyways…she's still off on her business trip. We had to celebrate Christmas and New Year's without her." He managed a weak smile. "But at least I still have Bloo and you guys."

"Yeah," Frankie replied, managing a weak smile herself. "I guess you do."

* * *

Her palms sweating and her chest tight, Frida slowly approached the balcony of Terrence and Mac's apartment, taking great care not to make a sound. Lucifer could see almost anything, she knew, and after what she had said on Christmas Eve, she did not want to face his wrath again. But she was on a mission, and the sooner that she executed it, the better. She might pay the ultimate price, she knew, but it would have all been worth it.

Grabbing the rail with her hands, she softly swung herself over, landing nimbly on her feet. She pricked her ears and looked around, to know for sure that her sister had not decided to follow her, then slowly approached the glass pane that separated the apartment from the balcony and rapped on it a couple of times. She then drew back as she heard the sound of footsteps, then the door opened and Terrence emerged. He gasped in shock when he saw her.

"Frida!" he exclaimed, but the jackal woman put a finger to her lips, told him to calm down; that she was not here to bring him any harm. She could still sense uneasiness in the raven-haired teen as he shuffled off to the side, then took a seat next to the balcony's edge. Frida sat alongside him, gazing up at the stars that were scattered overhead. After a long moment of silence, she finally decided to speak.

"I'm supposing you'd like to know why I'm here," she said calmly. Terrence looked over at her, a trace of nervousness still in his expression, then nodded slowly. The jackal-woman sighed, then shut her eyes and spoke:

"If it makes you feel any better in any way, Lucifer did not tell me to come here. I came here on my own, in hopes that I could speak to you. I know that you're wondering why, and I shall soon cover that. Hon…" She reached out to stroke his hair. "I just want to say that I'm sorry."

"Why?" Terrence asked her. "You're not the one who—"

"No," Frida interrupted, "but I played some sort of part in this horrible little escapade. I wanted a Messenger, yes, but I never wanted them to pick you. There were many other members of the Occult—full-grown members—that would have been more than willing to take up this opportunity. Many of them are virgins, and many of them have made direct contact with Lucifer himself—heck, there are some women who have laid with him dating as far back as the Puritan ages." She shifted her weight to one side and continued, "When I found out that he had chosen you, at first I didn't know what to think. And then my decision was made…" She softly took his head in her hand and turned it over toward hers, so that their eyes were burning directly into one-another's. "You shouldn't have to suffer. Not like this."

Terrence pulled away from her. "How do you know?" he snapped, folding his arms across his chest. "It's not like you've ever suffered anything similar."

Frida lowered her head, then shut her eyes for a moment before looking up at the teen again. "Yes, I have," she replied. She looked down at her hands—covered in navy-blue, glossy fur, the fingers tipped with claws instead of ordinary human nails. "Believe it or not, I was once a woman…a human woman. Thousands of years ago, I lived in prosperous ancient Egypt—I had everything a woman of her time could ask for. Caterers, the finest in gold and jewels, personal servants." She looked up toward the stars. "But I threw that all away when I accused Joseph, the prophet of Dreams. I didn't know it until then…I was just envious. But then I'm suddenly falling head-over-heels in blackness, and the next thing I know my bones are cracking, my spine is splitting, my face is changing, and my ears turn to that of a jackal's."

She sighed. "Lucifer tried to make me forget—tried to erase my past life from my memory. But I still remembered, and for a long time. I was forced to act upon my Sin, representing the envy that I had so much felt back in my living years. I hated it, but what else could I do? If I refused Lucifer's whims, he would wipe me out and I would cease to exist in either dimension."

Frida turned her head toward Terrence, who was now looking at her in an almost shameful manner. "It's how we were born," she murmured to him. "It's how we all came to be—all seven of us. My sister, Ancedonia…she used to be Delilah, the woman who seduced Samson just so they could torment him. She was punished just as I was, but she _enjoyed_ her lust. Now she can seduce and sleep with any man, whenever she pleases." She heaved a deep breath. "Just as she did with you."

Terrence nodded, and for a while there was a long moment of silence. Finally, Terrence reached out and touched Frida on the hand, gently.

"Can you…can you take it out of me?" he asked, softly, almost pleadingly. Frida looked down at him, then shook her head grimly.

"I cannot undo what has already been done," she responded, "especially by a greater power than I. You must give birth, and you must fulfill the prophecy that Lucifer has planned for so long." Terrence turned his head away in defeat. "But you will not be alone. You'll never be alone." She touched his cheek, then began to fade back into the sky, giving a final whisper of "Never" before disappearing completely.

Terrence stood, then looked down at the location in which Frida had disappeared, secretly longing for her to come back. He couldn't do it alone, and, deep down, he was terrified beyond all reason. The shaman had said ten weeks—and it had been ten weeks since he had seen her. He had no idea what the birth would be like, nor how it would come out of him. Would he die in the process? Would his stomach explode? Would he just cough the damn thing up, nearly choking himself to death in the process?

He shivered, both from the cold and fright. It was time to go back inside. Quickly rushing over to the glass sliding door, he stepped inside, slammed it shut, and slumped down on the couch. It didn't take him long to fall asleep after that.

* * *

_Puer de nobis, Meus Custos_.

It heard the faint echoing from within the artificial womb that Lucifer had supplied it with. Its ear pricking, it listened through the fluid, trying to hear other murmurs from its supposed father, whom had been in contact with it ever since it had begun to develop inside its mother. It rolled over slightly, eyes opening, trying to see through the thick fluid.

_Puer de nobis. Come to your master._

It shied away slightly; it did not want to leave the sanctity of this place. Not now, not ever. But apparently life takes its harsh turns, and the creature's lungs finally opened up, allowing it to breathe—that is, if it could breathe through the thick fluid that surrounded it. Opening its mouth to wail, but instead getting a mouthful of thick juice, it looked around, in a panic, as the tissues of the womb started closing in on it, pressing against its little body in a way most uncomfortable.

Now was the time to do it.

Now was the time to finally leave and enter the world of the Living.

Panicking, it looked down toward a small opening, which had been connected, thankfully, to the boy's bladder should this time ever come. Turning over, it dug and scratched at the tough tissue with its claws, struggling to breathe, thrashing as it did so. Finally the opening expanded, allowing the fluid to drain out through the bladder.

But the job was not done yet…oh, how far it was from its freedom…

By instinct, it flipped over on its back and began to claw at the even tougher tissue surrounding it overhead. This would be a long, agonizing time for both it and its mother, but it had to be done. Its father had called, and it would obey.

It would obey.

* * *

Terrence was awakened by the stabbing pain in his abdomen almost immediately, and awoke feeling pained and damp. Looking down at his jeans, he saw that he had wet himself again…only it was way too much for ordinary urine this time. It had soaked into the couch and had the strangest odor…far from the odor of ordinary urine…and his stomach felt like a thousand knives were being plunged into it. He moaned and held his stomach, trying his hardest to think this situation through.

In science class, during the health lesson, he had learned that when things like this happened to a woman, it had meant that her water had broken and that she was going into labor, meaning that the baby wasn't far off from being born. Suddenly striking him, his eyes popped open and, gasping in fright, he raced to the phone and quickly dialed Foster's number. The phone rang several times before someone finally picked up.

"Mac!" he cried, clutching his stomach with one hand. "Mac, please, is that you? Mac, I need help! I'm going into labor! _MAC_!"


	12. The Birth

**SIXTH SUNDOWN**

**By Grand High Idol**

**Quick A/N: Well, here's the moment you've all been waiting for…just read and enjoy. ;) I'd also like to thank everyone who's reviewed so far, especially my idol, NeitherSparky. And yeah, I know what you're talking about with the hyenas; I actually studied them myself for awhile…and a special thanks to Gareth Paul Barsby for drawing fanart from my fic:)**

**Anyway, enough of this drivel; it's fic you want, it's fic you get…

* * *

**

**XI.**

The pain was overbearing. Terrence could hardly breathe, let alone hold still, as he cried into the phone, "Maaccc! Answer me! Please! Oh, dear God, _help me_!"

"Wow, overly dramatic _today_, aren't we?"

It didn't take the teen long to recognize the voice at the other end of the line. "Bloo!" he shouted angrily.

"Geez, there's no need to yell, Pig-Boy. I'm right at the other end of the line, you know."

Gritting his teeth, Terrence snapped, "Listen, you little pre-chewed wad of blue gum, you are going to get _off_ the damn line and you are going to get Mac _right_ frikking now. I am in _immense_ pain right now."

"Aww, whassa matter? Does 'oo have a tummy-ache?" Bloo responded mockingly.

"Just shut up and get—"

"Master Blooregard!"

Terrence heard Bloo whisper "uh-oh", then a few clicking noises were made—apparently the blob was trying to conceal the phone behind his back as Mr. Herriman's voice drew nearer. "Master Blooregard, I have told you many times that the phone is strictly off-limits in this house! If it needs to be answered, allow me or Miss Francis to do so."

"I was just trying to have some fun—"

"Well, you can go take your 'fun' somewhere else!" Mr. Herriman snapped. "Now begone with you! I shall finish up this call, thank you very much."

"Okay, okay." He heard Bloo shuffling off. "Geez, can't even answer a stupid phone call nowadays…"

There were a few more clicking sounds, then Mr. Herriman's voice responded, as crisp and clear as it always was. "Hello, Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends, Mr. Herriman speaking. How may we help you this fine evening?"

Terrence was about to snap at _him_ as well but bit his tongue; if he yelled at Mr. Herriman there was a fine chance that the rabbit would hang up. Mustering all the patience that he had betwixt the stabbing pains in his abdomen and his hurry to seek for help, he replied, his tone sounding rather forced, "Uh, yeah…can I—can I speak to Mac, please?"

"Master Mac?" Mr. Herriman sounded confused. "Why, are you family or friends?"

"I—I'm his brother," Terrence said through his teeth, clutching his stomach tightly with one hand. "Please—let me speak to him. It's a real emergency."

"Under normal circumstances I would say no, but in this case I shall make a generous exception." He heard Mr. Herriman set the phone down, then hop away, calling "Master Mac! Call for you in the foyer!" before hopping back to the phone and picking it up. "He shall be down shortly."

"Thanks," Terrence moaned, slumping to the floor. He waited, the phone held against his ear, as the scurrying of sneakered footsteps came within his sound range, and finally someone picked up the phone.

"Hello?" Mac's voice asked. "Terrence? Is that you?"

"Uh-huh," Terrence whimpered, clutching his stomach tighter.

"Terrence, you sound like you're in pain. What's wrong?" Mac asked. "Just tell me calmly as to what's going on so badly that you need to call me at ten o'clock at night."

"Mac," Terrence gasped, "I—I went into labor. Please, you've got to send some help over here. The pain is unbearable."

"You _what_!" Mac's voice was stricken with surprise. He then took a deep breath and said, "Okay, okay, just calm down. I'll get Frankie, and we'll get there as soon as we possibly can. Just hang in there, okay?"

"Okay," Terrence replied weakly; there was then a click at the other end of the line as Mac hung up. The teen allowed the phone to slip from his hand and clatter on the floor before he finally collapsed on the floor, his breath coming in quick gasps.

* * *

When Frankie and Mac finally found him, he was lying curled up in the fetal position, both hands to his stomach, whimpering to himself in fright. Frankie slowly approached him, then placed a hand on his shoulder before turning over to look at Mac.

"It's obvious that we can't do this in a hospital," she told him. "We're going to have to do it here, just like you said." She sighed and looked down at the whimpering heap that lay before her. "Good thing I'm an expert midwife…" She turned back to Mac. "Mac, he needs a safe and secluded place to give birth. Is your mother's room a good spot?"

Mac pondered awhile, then nodded. "Yeah, it's probably the biggest room in the apartment," he told her. "I'll get everything set up, okay?"

"Good idea." Mac ran off, leaving Frankie alone with Terrence. She gently patted his shoulder. "Come on," she said softly, like she did with every other creature in the past that she had to coax over to the birthing room. "It's going to be alright. Just come with me, okay?"

Terrence finally uncurled himself and looked up at her with tear-filled eyes. "I'm afraid," he finally admitted, shaking slightly. Frankie smiled lightly, then stood up and leaned over to lift the teen up. Being that the teen was only about one hundred and twenty five pounds at this time, it was no big deal for her; she had to lift much heavier things during her workdays at Foster's.

"There's nothing to be afraid of," she told him gently. "We'll get through this. Now just take slow, deep breaths, hon, and we'll see what comes around."

Terrence clutched her jacket tightly as she turned around and carried him into their mother's room, which was, indeed, an elegant place. The walls were painted lavender, shelves upon shelves of workbooks and novels aligned the walls, and in the midst was a queen-sized bed, the sheets rolled down and the pillows brought up—all set for the mother-to-be. Mac stood beside the bed, watching nervously as Frankie gently lowered Terrence into it, then removed his sweatshirt and began to remove his jeans.

Needless to say, this behavior upon Frankie's part sparked the little boy's curiosity. "Frankie?" he asked. "Um…Frankie, why are you stripping him?"

Frankie folded Terrence's soiled jeans over her arm and turned to look back at Mac. "If he's to give birth, he can't do it with his clothes on," she replied. "It'll choke the baby, not to mention that there'll be a real mess involved. I should know…" She sighed and shook her head, then turned back to Terrence, his breathing still coming in harsh gasps and tears streaming down his cheeks. Frankie gently stroked him on the head, then turned back toward the littler boy.

"Mac, you might want to sit this one out," she told him. "Childbirth is a serious issue, and I don't want you to be around to see the grisly effects it has."

"I understand, Frankie." Mac nodded, then began to head for the door. "Just tell me when he _does _give birth, okay? I wanna see the baby."

Frankie smiled. "You'll probably hear it first, but okay," she replied. "Now shoo, you silly little rascal."

Mac returned the smile, then opened the door and quickly headed out, shutting it behind him. Frankie turned back to Terrence, who was still in a cold sweat and breathing harshly. She gently laid a hand upon his forehead; he turned to look at her, and she could see the fright welling in his eyes. Frowning, she gently stroked him, saying, calmly, "It's okay. Don't be scared. Just take slow, deep breaths, Terrence. Slow, deep breaths."

"I—I can't—I—_AAAAIIII_!" The teen screamed in agony, his spine arching and his hands clenching tightly into fists. Frankie quickly placed her hands on his chest and pressed him back down onto the bed, telling him to calm down, that the pain was natural and would all be over soon. Terrence continued to struggle, so much that she finally had to restrain him by tying his wrists down with a pair of heavy leather bracelets that she had brought along with her, just in case.

"I'm sorry, hon," she said, stroking his hair, "but it's for your own good."

"Let me _outta_ these things! Let me _out_!" Terrence continued to thrash and struggle, and as much as it hurt Frankie to watch him like this, she knew it was best for him. If any harm were to come to the baby, especially after all this time…she didn't know what she would do, or what Terrence would do, for that matter.

"The more you struggle, the more pain you'll inflict upon yourself," she told him gently. "Just remember what I said…slow, deep breaths, okay? Just relax and everything will be just fine."

_It'll all be over soon_, she thought to herself. _Then everything can be back to normal_.

At least, that's what she hoped.

* * *

Four hours passed, and to no avail. Mac had stood outside, waiting patiently, for Frankie to let him back in, but when he realized that Terrence would be in labor longer than he had thought, he had retreated to the couch—which still reeked of placental fluid—and had fallen asleep on one of the pillows. He was still dreaming peacefully when someone tapped him on the forehead.

"Hey…"

Another poke. "Wakey wakey, sleepy-head!" a voice chimed out. There was a pause. "Man, this couch _reeks_, you know that?"

Mac groaned, then opened his eyes in time to see Bloo standing in front of him. At the sight of the little blue blob, he immediately bolted upright, shaking the excess sleep off in the process. "Bloo!" he exclaimed, placing a hand on his chest out of shock. "How'd you get here?"

"I walked," Bloo responded, "Which, by the way, isn't very easy in weather like this." He took a seat on the couch next to Mac. "So, what's going on? How's Frankie doing with Stupid McFatso over in the birth ward?"

"Okay, first of all, stop calling him that, and second, I don't know," Mac told him. "Although I have been hearing an awful lot of shrieks, screams, and curses coming from within the room…I really hope that it's Terrence's doing, I really hope it is." He rubbed at one eye. "Man, Bloo…what time is it?"

Bloo glanced over at the kitchen clock. "According to your clock, here, it's around two thirty in the morning," he replied. He looked over at Mac. "Why do you ask something stupid like that?"

Mac sat, pondering a moment, then his eyes grew wide with fright. "Oh, no. Don't tell me that this is happening again."

"That what's happening again?" Bloo asked as Mac jumped off the couch. "Come on, buddy, don't leave me in the dark, here! I wanna know!"

Mac approached the door, pressed an ear against it. His gaze traveled to meet Bloo's. "I did some research while Terrence was still…um…you know, pregnant," he began, "And I found out one of the most _disturbing_ facts. Apparently three o'clock in the morning, sharp, is the real witching hour, not midnight. It signifies the opposite approximation of the death of Christ, which happened around three o'clock in the afternoon sharp. If my theory is correct, Terrence is gonna give birth to that thing at _exactly_ three 'o clock, and until he does…"

From behind the door they could hear the sounds of screaming, cursing and thrashing, plus words in a language that they could not understand. Mac shook violently, removing his ear from the door and placing his hands on it. He looked over at Bloo.

"I hope that Frankie is okay in there…" he whispered, a trace of fright clearly noticeable in his tone.

* * *

Frankie, on the other hand, was having some problems of her own. Backed up against the wall, she watched as Terrence fought and struggled against the bands, his eyes taking on a bright yellow glow and foam forming at his mouth like a rabid animal's. His back arched, his neck twisted, all so clearly that the redhead could hear the bones cracking. She covered her ears to try and shield out the noise, but it was to no avail. She could still hear the words…the horrible, horrible words…

"_Deus fucus liberare vos. Deus _solere_ liberare vos_!"

He had said things similar to this, and he continued to carry on, still thrashing, still foaming at the mouth, still glowing at the eyes, as if he had been possessed by demons—which, she guessed, wasn't far from the real thing. Her head buried in her hands, she glanced up at the clock…two fifty five. She couldn't believe how long this had been going on, and she was frightened by it, needless to say. Sure, she was an expert midwife, but she had never had a case like this, involving a possible demonite child…

The seconds ticked away, the minutes, until three o'clock sharp, and she finally mustered the courage to approach Terrence, reaching out a hand in hopes that she could help him. She was just inches away from touching his forehead when the clock struck three, and Terrence suddenly bolted upright—snapping _both_ of the leather bands used to restrain him, and let out a loud scream—unlike anything she had ever heard before in her life.

_Yes!_ She thought she heard a voice echo beyond the screaming. _YES!_

Terrence continued to scream in this bloodcurdling manner for around thirty seconds; he then collapsed onto the bed and didn't move. Frankie wasn't even sure if he was breathing, for that matter, and slowly reached out her hand to check…

She stopped when she looked down at Terrence's belly, realizing that there was movement taking place underneath the skin. Something shifted, moved along up toward the chest cavity, then back down again, then finally the skin split open in a spray of blood, revealing a crow-black, razor-sharp claw.

Frankie clapped her hands to her mouth, in both fright and disgust, as the claw continued to work its way down Terrence's stomach, forming an incision about eighteen inches long. The skin then split open, and from within it emerged a second set of claws, followed by the creature itself. It gave a light cry, then fell off of its mother's body and rolled, a bloody heap, at the edge of the bed. Frankie finally managed to swallow the bile rising in her throat, her breath coming in loud gasps, as she eyed the curled-up bloody lump that was supposedly Terrence's baby. The umbilical cord was still attached; she could see it plain as day trailing from the incision to the infant's stomach.

Finally swallowing her fear, she reached out for the tool kit that she always brought with her when performing births. Demonite or not, a baby was a baby, and she could not allow it—or its mother—to die. Withdrawing a scissors from the small bag she had around her shoulder, she approached the whining infant and, turning it over, brought the scissors about a half-inch from the creature's stomach and snipped the cord. A thick, clear fluid ran out from the snipped cord as the creature rolled over onto its back, still whining and still bloodied.

"C'mere, you," she said softly and, reaching for a towel, grabbed the infant and wrapped it up, massaging the places where the blood caked around it was the greatest. The creature let out a loud cry—its first cry of life, its eyes still shut and its ears still lowered. Frankie gently bounced the infant up and down in her arms, trying to calm it.

"So you're a baby boy, huh?" she asked it, gently rubbing its forehead. "I'm sure that your mother will be very proud." She sighed and looked over toward Terrence, who still wasn't moving, his stomach split wide open and the umbilical cord still trailing over to the edge of the bed. Frankie gently set the infant down on a pile of bedsheets; it continued to wail as she withdrew heavy-duty thread and a needle from her bag as well. Slowly approaching Terrence, she used the scissors to remove the artificial womb and umbilical cord, then set them aside and examined the teen's inner organs. None appeared to be damaged—thank God—so she quickly closed up the gash and, immediately getting to work, began to stitch the huge gap closed. With luck, she thought, Terrence might still be alive after all.

* * *

Something had stirred Berry from her sleep.

She didn't know what exactly it was, but she somehow knew it was important, for she could feel the tingling in her paws, the images flashing through her mind. She looked around the room—all of the other imaginary friends were asleep—then quickly jumped down from her bed and grabbed the nearest writing utensil she could manage to find—a spoon, namely. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she began to carve out the message into the floor, working hard, working fast, all the time hearing the same whisper within her head:

_The Army is coming_.

* * *

Terrence stirred around four in the morning, feeling dizzy and lightheaded. He moaned, rubbed his head, and then looked down at himself—his waist had been heavily bandaged, and he could feel the roughness of stitches underneath. It was mighty uncomfortable for him, but he had more important things to worry about. Turning, he saw Mac and Frankie standing in the room, Frankie holding a weeping bundle in her arms.

"My baby…" he gasped, his voice a low whisper from his exhaustion. "Where—where's my baby?"

Frankie smiled, then gently bounced the weeping bundle in her arms. "Right here," she said. "It's a boy, Terrence…a baby boy. Not exactly sure what its species is, though, but I suppose it doesn't matter right now."

Mac nodded. "Indeed," he replied. "What matters now is how on Earth we should get rid of it." Terrence growled at him. "Look, Terrence, I'm just trying to keep the world safe for both of us. If you look at it, you'll get too attached to it, and then—"

"_Fuck_ you!" Terrence shouted at Mac, who strayed back a couple inches; he then turned to Frankie. "Please…lemme hold my baby."

Frankie looked down at Mac, then over at Terrence, then finally nodded and handed the bundle over to the teen, who unwrapped it—in time to see his child's face and body. The creature appeared to be some sort of dragon/small dog/goat hybrid—it had a lamblike face, small horns, and large ears, like those of a jackal's, even though they were down at the moment. Its front legs bore a pair of large claws; its hind legs bore cloven hooves. Its tail was long and fluffy, and a small pair of wings sprouted from its back. It was covered entirely in ebony fur except for one particular spot—a red mark in the center of its forehead that seemed to bear no symbolic reference.

Terrence didn't care what the hell it was; the very sight of this little creature, this essence of life, was enough to melt his heart to the boiling point. He didn't know whether it was motherly affection or not, but he snuggled his cheek against the infant's, and the little creature immediately stopped crying, knowing now that his mother was near. He snuggled deeply into his mother's bosom, sighing deeply. Frankie smiled, and Mac couldn't help smiling as well at the sight that lay before them.

"I was waiting for you," Terrence whispered to the newborn, before they both fell asleep, the infant resting on its mother's breast. Frankie, smiling, turned to look at Mac.

"I think that they need some time alone, don't you?" she whispered to him.

Mac smiled and nodded. "I guess so," he replied.

The two then left the room quietly, shutting the door behind them and turning off the lights as they departed.

* * *

Frida, finally sensing that the demonite had been born, looked up toward the surface and smiled to herself. She was glad that things had gone over okay, and that the boy was all right for the time being. She would do all in her might, she swore, to protect the boy and his new child from any harm that Lucifer or the others may have to offer…she owed them that much. For brief moments she had even wondered what Heaven was like, what the Army of Light was like, she so longed to leave. Sighing in contentment, she slowly got down from the rock upon which she stood and turned around—

In time to face Ancedonia. And, needless to say, the cat-creature didn't appear the least bit happy; her features were set in a sneer and her tail was swishing madly.

"I know what you did, Sister-dear," she snarled at Frida, "and I'm going to make _sure_ that you don't get away with it."


	13. Darky

**SIXTH SUNDOWN**

**By Grand High Idol**

**XII.**

"Umm…Berry?"

Berry stirred from her moment of slumber, finding herself curled up on the floor next to where Wilt usually slept, the spoon she had used to carve out the message lying beside her. Moaning, she slowly got up and rubbed her head, looking around at the other imaginary friends who were courteous enough to let her share a room with them. And, needless to say, they didn't look the least bit happy. Wilt appeared annoying, Eduardo had fright written all over his features, and Coco…well, it was hard to tell with Coco either way. She blinked, then rubbed at her eyes.

"Ugh, what a night," she moaned to herself; she then shook her head to clear herself of the excess sleepiness and stared up at the tall, crimson-red Friend. "What is it, Wilt? Is something wrong?"

"_That's_ what's wrong." Wilt angrily pointed his good arm in the direction of the floor, where Berry had made her carvings. "Look, I don't mind you sharing a room with us at all, but I'm sorry, you can_not_ violate our property. It's gonna take forever to fix that!"

Berry shied away a little. "I'm berry sorry, Wilt," she replied. "I—I don't know what came over me. I just suddenly woke up and began carving…I know it might sound silly, but what with all that's been going on, I hoped you'd—"

They were interrupted from their conversation by a loud barking from outside. The fear fading from his features, Eduardo quickly rushed to the window, flung it open, and looked outside. What he saw, near the Extremeosaur pen against the warm winter sun, was something that made his heart leap in his chest—and not in fear this time. Grinning hugely, he turned back to the others.

"Co coco?" Coco asked him.

"Es tress perro! He es well again!" Eduardo exclaimed happily. He began to run for the doorway. "I go see him right now."

The others stared after him, then watched from the window as the purple imaginary beast, wrapped up in a scarf, rushed toward the Extremeosaur pen, a box of doggie biscuits in one hoof. Cerberus greeted him with a few thumps of the tail, then the middle head licked him, while the right head took the box of doggie snacks. Eduardo hugged the dog-beast tightly, then picked up a fallen branch from the ground and threw it; Cerberus immediately gave way to the chase. Watching them play together seemed to raise the other Friends' spirits as well, and they smiled, forgetting, momentarily, about Berry's message carved into the floor.

Yet there it was, embedded into the wood due to hours of scraping and carving, made to look just right, in bold block letters:

_THE ARMY IS COMING._

No one seemed to take notice anymore, however; they were having too much fun watching Cerberus play with Eduardo. Deciding that they should join in on the fun, they quickly rushed out of the room to join him, Berry coming out last in order to grab her pink sweater.

As she pulled it on, she could see the words clear as day, darkened from the sunlight that shone through the open window. She knew that it had some significance, and she knew that it was a warning of some sort, but she didn't want to think about that right now. She'd been suffering for the past ten weeks, and she was going to do something about that right now; she was going to make herself smile, have some fun.

She left the room without paying any more attention to the message scrawled on the floor, hoping already that the others were having as much fun as Eduardo was.

* * *

Terrence was still holding his baby when Frankie came back in to check on him, Mac tagging along behind her. It was much later in the afternoon, and the two formers had already stirred. The baby's eyes were open, at long last; Mac was amazed at how much they looked like Terrence's—only with a slighter yellowish tinge. Terrence's gaze traveled up from the little demonite to the two as they entered the room.

"Good to see you awake again," Frankie commented. She approached the side of the bed and began tugging on the side of the bedsheets. "I know that you're exhausted, hon, but could you get out of the bed for a sec? I really need to wash these bedsheets before they become infected or stained."

"Yeah," Terrence replied weakly; he then swung his legs over the side of the bed and shakily got to his feet, as Frankie collected the bedsheets, the child still in his arms. He was clad in nothing but his boxer shorts and a pajama shirt of Frankie's—an improvement from last night. He cradled the child close to him as Frankie removed the bedsheets, gathering them up in her arms to the point where her face was barely visible. Sighing, she looked over the mountains of white at Mac.

"Mac, these sheets need to be washed, and I'm guessing that you don't have a laundry room in your actual apartment," she huffed. "Could you—could you tell me where _you_ normally bring your clothes to get washed?"

Mac nodded, then pointed. "It's just a couple doors down to the right once you get out there," he informed her. "The door usually isn't locked, and it's open to everyone in the apartment. You should be able to get in there."

"Okay, thanks," Frankie said forcefully as she carried the heavy sheets to the doorway. "I owe you one, Mac."

"No problem," Mac said, waving as she left; however, as soon as she was out of earshot, the little boy whirled around to face Terrence, now sitting on the stripped bed and allowing the infant to nip at his fingers. "Terrence," he said sternly, "we have _got_ to talk about this."

"Talk about what?" Terrence asked him, looking down to nuzzle the infant again. "I'm not pregnant anymore, baby's been born, end of story."

"No, it's not the end. Not yet." Mac glowered at him, folding his arms. "That 'baby' of yours is a _demonite_, Terrence. And demonites are bad news. Oh sure, he may look adorable, sweet, and innocent now, but just wait until he's old enough to walk. Then you'll _really_ be sorry."

"Bullshit," Terrence growled back, drawing the demon child closer to his breast. "I'm technically his mother. He won't hurt me, and he _probably_ won't hurt you if I train him right."

"That's not what I'm talking about!" Mac snapped. "Listen, Terrence, I know that you probably love your new baby and all, and you're so excited, but this creature here is actually Lucifer's _key_ to the surface. Haven't you ever thought about that? Haven't you ever thought about the consequences that we might endure if this—this _thing_ were to stay alive?"

The creature made a soft whimpering noise; Terrence drew it close and turned away. "You're not taking Darky away from me," he snarled. "Not now, not ever."

Mac's mouth dropped open. "Darky?" he repeated. "You mean—you mean that you actually gave that _thing_ a name?"

Terrence nodded, then smiled a bit. "Do you like it? I think it's rather fitting, 'cuz, you know, he's dark."

Mac's eyes narrowed; it was now or never to tell him. "Terrence, look, I'm sorry, but 'Darky' needs to go," he said, his voice firm. "Unless you want Lucifer to come back, we're going to have to destroy that creature, one way or another, and prevent any of this from ever—"

"Shut up!" Terrence whipped around and stared directly into Mac's eyes, teeth bared, eyes narrowed; Mac was sure that they were starting to take on a yellowish glow. "I don't know who the _fuck_ you think you are, bro, but Darky is staying with me until my dying day. You _get that_!" He gave Mac a shove, causing the little boy to fall backward.

Mac landed rather hard on his behind, but quickly shook it off and tried to explain once more to Terrence. "Terrence, think this over. If you keep that thing, thousands of people are going to die!" Terrence stuck up his nose at him and trod past him toward the direction of his bedroom. "Terrence, do you hear me?" No response. "Terrence!"

He heard the door slam; he sighed and flopped over onto his back. So much for the voice of reason, he thought to himself.

But he knew that his hunch was true; Darky had to be destroyed. But the proper time to destroy him never seemed to come to him at just the right moment…he would wait, he decided. He would wait, and then…

He would strike.

* * *

"Sister, _please_!" Frida begged, her hands clasped together tightly as she watched her sister walk along the bridges of Hell, so carelessly, swinging her hips back and forth, swishing her tail. Every male demon in the area would always stop to gawk at her because, naturally, she _was_ Lust, after all, and everything that it represented. Frida followed her, completely at her mercy due to what had happened last night.

"Sister!" she repeated, grabbing onto Ancedonia's shoulder. "Anne, sister, _please_. You can't do this to me!"

"And why not, might I ask?" Ancedonia replied, brushing Frida's hand off of her shoulder nimbly before carrying on her way. "It was your fault in the first place, you know. Don't blame me for the consequences _you're_ about to face."

"I _had_ to do it!" Frida shouted. "He would have _died_ if I hadn't have done it! You must understand, sister, that I do not put my own wants before Lucifer's!"

Ancedonia whirled around. "Is that so?" she snapped. "Then why did you allow the boy to live in the first place? You know that he is nothing but a useless shell to us now, as does Lucifer. Why did you spare him, sister? Out of denial? Self-guilt? Or maybe you just _like_ the boy a little bit too much!"

"That's not true!" Frida was surprised that as she shouted these words, she could feel tears—actual tears—blossom in her eyes. Blinking them back and ignoring the fact that she could feel human emotion again, she continued, "I just didn't know, that's all! I didn't know!"

"Good." Ancedonia brushed her thigh against a nearby stalagmite, tingling from the pleasure. "Then that shall be your excuse when I bring you before Lucifer."

"No!" Frida cried, but her cries were ignored when the cat-being was approached by one of the workers of the Damned. Bowing down to her, he then reached up and gently felt her behind, to which she giggled and gave him a playful slap.

"So that's what you want to play, isn't it?" Ancedonia asked him; the worker nodded and got to his feet, placing his hands around her waist. "Very well, then. We'll just leave my poor, poor, troubled sister in peace while we go finish our handiwork; that sound good to you?"

"Indeed," the worker whispered raspily, and, giggling, Ancedonia pranced down toward one of the chambers, dragging the worker behind her.

Frida sighed and shook her head; sometimes she just couldn't imagine what Ancedonia's life would be like without sex, day in and day out. The truth finally coming back to haunt her, to squeeze at her heart until it burst, she slumped to the ground and hung her head, her face hidden beneath her straight blond hair.

However, this could not conceal the tear that fell from the shadows of the face and landed on the dusty ground.

* * *

About a week or two passed before Terrence was actually well enough to bring Darky into Foster's. A lot of the Friends—especially the female ones—at first crowded around him, to look at the new little wonder that had only been born weeks ago. They petted him, stroked his fur, all the time congratulating Terrence on the victory. Terrence was made uncomfortable by these comments, but he supposed that it was just part of being a new mother, and that it would wear off soon. Sighing, he made his way into the lounge and set Darky on the ground.

For the past week and a half Terrence had tracked his baby's progress, and was amazed by the results. Within a week Darky was able to stand on his own; within another three days, could walk, run, and sprint. He still could not talk yet, only make whining, whimpering, and crying sounds to acclaim as to what he wanted, but Terrence suspected that he would probably never talk; most demonites never had the use for vocal cords aside from making those sounds. His eyes were much brighter than they were on the day of his birth, his ears had pricked and were now erect, and his fur had grown out somewhat. He yawned, then rolled over on the floor, a sign that he was apparently bored.

Rolling over onto his stomach, his ears pricked as he watched Coco, Wilt, Bloo, Eduardo, and Berry enter the room, still laughing and still cold from playing in the snow. Removing their scarves, hats, coats, and mittens—whatever they were wearing when they had gone out—they tossed them aside and took a seat by the fire to warm up. Darky pricked his ears, sniffed, and then bounded over to join them.

He jumped on Berry first, being that Berry gave off the most spiritual scent. At first the pink creature was angry and tried to shove him off, but she stopped when she saw Darky in full-body form.

"Oh, aren't you just the berry cutest thing!" she gushed; she then took Darky into her paws and began petting him. "And you're so soft, too!"

"Who so soft?" Eduardo asked; Berry held up Darky for the purple beast to get a good look at. Eduardo reached out cautiously, then stroked the demonite behind the ear. "Aww, he _es _soft!" He took Darky into his arms next, stroking him on the forehead. "And he so friendly, too!"

"Hey hey hey, what's all this I'm hearing?" Bloo leaned forward in order to see what the source of the attention was. "Oh, _that_ thing? Pfft. _Anyone_ can be that cute. I mean, look at me, for example. I'm cute, too! I'm huggable, too! Come _on_, people, drop that thing and look at me!"

"Oh, don't worry yourself, Bloo," Berry said, leaning over onto his shoulder—or at least where his shoulder would be if he had any. "I still think you're berry, _berry_ cute."

"Yeah, well, that's nice to hear," Bloo muttered. He then looked back over at Darky, who had now been passed to Wilt and was busy licking the crimson friend's face with a forked tongue, like a small dog. Wilt laughed, then finally waved his one good arm.

"Okay, okay, you can stop now!" He laughed and got up, holding Darky tightly in his one good arm. "Well, aren't _you_ just the little slam-dunker!" He turned to face Terrence, who, up until this moment, was being completely ignored. "Is this little guy yours?"

Terrence nodded, smiling a bit. "I gave birth to him about two weeks ago," he replied, leaning over onto one of the couch pillows and folding his hands over his stomach. "His name's Darky."

"Well, he's berry delightful!" Berry exclaimed. "I mean, for a demonite child, that is." She shrugged.

"Yeah," Mac muttered to himself from outside the doorway. "'Berry' delightful, indeed."

If no one else was going to listen to him, he knew now that he must act alone to prevent Lucifer's return to the surface. In one hand he held a vial of holy water, and in the other, a syringe. If Terrence planned to keep Darky until late hours, the others would be in bed, and he and Bloo could finally put a stop to this once and for all.

He looked back into the room, where the other Friends were playing with Darky, and his heart sank just a little bit. He really didn't want to see his friends unhappy, nor get Terrence riled up again, but their lives were at stake. He had to do it.

And he had to do it tonight.


	14. Dirty Little Secret

**SIXTH SUNDOWN**

**By Grand High Idol**

**XIII.**

It was late evening by the time the Friends headed up to bed, and Terrence ended up falling asleep on the couch—it may have been a few weeks, but he was still exhausted, nonetheless. Darky was the only one left awake…Darky and Mac. It was perfect for the little boy to make his move, just so long as Darky didn't make any noises or sudden movements. Plus, from what he'd seen of Darky so far, the little creature was very trusting—he would probably never suspect a thing from Mac. Heaving a deep breath, he lowered his head and stuck the syringe into the vial, allowing the pure substance to fill the interior.

A pang of guilt swept through the little boy's chest again. He didn't want to do it, he really didn't. He knew that his friends would be upset with him for a long time—even longer than the failed trip to Europe—and Terrence, though he probably wouldn't show it now that his hormone levels had retained their proper positions, would be heartbroken. Worst of all was that Darky would _trust_ him—just like a little dog before you leave it at the vet for its final visit. Swallowing hard, he turned toward the darkened corridor.

Darky never strayed far from his mother, and that was a good thing for Mac. The infant demonite was now at the end of the corridor, a blackened silhouette against the wall, lapping up some juice that an ignorant imaginary friend had spilled earlier at dinnertime. Cautiously, Mac took a step forward, taking care to hide the syringe from the child's view.

Darky's ears pricked, and he looked up toward Mac, his yellow eyes blazing in the darkness. Swishing his tail back and forth, he cocked his head at the little brown-haired boy, and then happily trotted up to him, making several happy greeting noises.

Mac stared down at the little creature, his breath coming in dry heaves, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Darky turned around, and at just that moment the boy gave a sharp cry of anger and tackled the infant to the ground. Darky made a loud squeaking noise, but it was drowned by the _THUD_ as they hit the linoleum floor.

The syringe almost slipped out of Mac's hand, and as he quickly turned his head to retrieve it Darky struggled out from under him and ran, eyes wide in terror, his ears pressed flat against his skull. Mac murmured angrily to himself, then got to his feet and ran after the little creature again.

He caught up to Darky in the foyer. The creature was unsure which way to go; he was turning in circles, his eyes gleaming out an aura of confusion. Where was his mother? And why was this little boy trying to hurt him? What had he _done_?

Now was Mac's chance. Before Darky could decide upon his next destination, he gave another cry of anger and leapt for the demonite child. Darky turned around and tried to run away, but this time he was not so lucky; Mac managed to tackle him down, then rolled him over onto his back so that his throat was exposed.

Pinning the struggling creature to the ground by the chest, Mac reached for the syringe, which had clattered on the floor next to the two, and thrust it upward, preparing to plunge it down into the creature's throat. The little demonite emitted a loud whining noise from his vocal cords, almost a sad one, and his eyes teared up as he looked up at the rage written all over the little boy's face. Mac was about to plunge the syringe down when he saw this, and the rage in his features softened. Sighing, he tossed the syringe away; it clattered on the ground about three yards from where they were currently sitting. Gently, he helped the little demonite creature up.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to Darky, giving him a stroke on the forehead. "I can't hurt a living being, demonite or not—even if it _does_ mean risking the lives of others." Darky looked at him, almost sympathetically. "I just wish that there were a simpler way around it."

Darky nuzzled his hand before turning and sprinting off toward the lounge, to spend the night next to his mother's warm touch. Mac sighed, looked back at the syringe, then cursed himself for thinking of such a thing. Darky wasn't the problem here; Lucifer was. Darky was simply being used as a key, and was that really his fault? No, no it wasn't, he reasoned. The little creature was gentle and sweet, almost unaware that his father was the spawn of all evil known to mankind. Terrence, even though he had been taken advantage of in order to conceive Darky, still treated the little demonite like his own child; Mac had never, in all of his life, seen his older brother so affectionate toward one living thing.

He sighed again to himself. No, killing Darky was not the answer. There had to be some other way around this.

Much as he regretted it, it had to wait; he was growing tired and his head was spinning from sleepiness. Yawning, he trudged up the stairs to the room where Bloo, Wilt, Coco, Eduardo, and now Berry slept, hoping to God that Bloo would actually _share_ the bed with him this time. The little blob was a first-class expert when it came to hogging the bedsheets…

* * *

"Frida…Frida the Vain," Lucifer referred coldly as he sat atop his throne, his eyes narrowed as he stared down at the jackal-woman, now bound in chains and forced to kneel before him. Ancedonia stood in the distance, an icy smile playing on her features, as she stood amongst the other remaining five Sins. The others' faces were expressionless; Algernon seemed just a little tense, but that was all.

Frida refused to look at the demon as he continued, "My dear, I raised you to be a Sin. I gave you everything a woman of your palette could ever _want_. And _this_ is how you repay me!"

Frida's golden eyes traveled to meet his fiery gaze, her features firm despite the fear that brewed deep within her. "I did nothing," she replied simply, her voice emotionless. "What you have heard is nothing but a series of deceiving lies."

"Deceiving lies," Lucifer repeated, smiling a little. "You are a fine young mare, Frida. Strong. But you lack common sense." He leaned down further toward her, hissing angrily through clenched teeth, "The boy was _supposed_ to die in childbirth so that the infant would go into my custody, but _someone_ sabotaged the mission. Frida, darling, if what you claim is true, then _WHY IS THE BOY STILL ALIVE_?" He stood up, his eyes flaring a bright red as he said this, his wings spreading threateningly; Frida cringed, hiding her face in her hands. "A certain level of psychic energy was being transmitted to the boy during the time of birth. According to Ancedonia, as an official witness, _you_ were the only one concentrating during those hours."

The jackal woman's eyes flashed with anger. "And you'll _believe_ that slut?" she growled, slamming a fist into the dirt. "She's a liar, Master. A liar and a whore!" She glared in her sister's direction; Ancedonia gave a flick of her tail and looked away innocently, that cold smile still playing across her lips.

Lucifer leaned back upon his throne, tapping his fingers together as he thought for a few moments. Finally, grinning in a sense that he knew something else that Frida didn't, he looked back down at her.

"Very well," he told her. "I shall lift your sentence as soon as we get to the surface for the final battle."

Frida's eyes sparkled—possible hope? "You will?" she proclaimed; she then began bowing before him out of graciousness. "Oh, thank you, ever-wondrous Master, for your forgiving ways! I promise I shall never go near the boy again."

"Indeed, my Dear," Lucifer responded, nodding; he then leaned back against his throne, grinning evilly. "And I'll make _sure_ of it that you don't…_ever_."

* * *

"Wow, the kid really did a number on your spine," Frankie commented; she then wrapped her hands around his waist and yanked, causing a loud snapping sound. Panting, she leaned back against the wall of her bedroom. "Better?"

Terrence grimaced for a second or two, then nodded and rubbed at his back. "Much," he replied; he then took a seat atop Frankie's bed. "I guess I should thank you for it, Miss Foster…I never thought I'd be so _sore_ after Darky was born…"

"Call me Frankie," the redhead replied, smiling. "All my friends do." She then dusted off her hands. "And, yeah, chiropractory works wonders on the skeletal system. I had to have it done once myself, after Herriman asked me to haul, like, six tons of oats over to the Equestrian Center."

"That rabbit is _always_ bossing you around," Terrence replied, crossing his arms. "How can you _stand_ that thing? If I were you, I'd—"

Before he could finish the door swung open, and Red entered the room, Darky perched atop his head like a cat, his tail flicking back and forth. "Hi guys!" the block-like friend shouted, waving. "Look, Red got new hat."

Frankie giggled; Terrence sighed and shook his head. "I cannot _believe_ I am related to you," he sighed. "You are _such_ a dumbass."

"Oh, come on, he's just having fun," Frankie replied, removing her hand from her mouth. She stifled another giggle. "I know that you're a parent now, but lighten up once in a while! You've been acting completely unhappy ever since Darky was born."

"I know, I just…" The teen frowned, then motioned Darky over to him; the infant demonite leapt onto his mother's belly and snuggled against him. "I just can't help but wonder if what I did was right. Mac said…"

"What Mac says doesn't matter anymore," Frankie sighed. She reached over to stroke Darky behind the ear. "It's been done, it's over with, and I'm sure that Darky will grow into a happy, healthy adult over time. I mean…"

"No, you don't get it." Terrence sat upright, Darky still perched on his stomach, pawing at his mother's chest; Terrence sighed and lifted his shirt. Darky burrowed under it and relaxed his body. "Mac said that if I kept Darky, which I did, thousands of people were going to die. And he's _right_. Lucifer only violated me so that _he_ would have a key to the Surface, and now that Darky exists…" He chewed his lower lip nervously, looking down at the infant that was currently burrowed under his shirt, nursing. "I…I just don't know what to do. That bastard could come to the Surface at any minute, and what am _I_ supposed to do then? Huh?"

"Red thinks you talk too much."

Terrence leered up in Red's direction. "Would you _leave_ now? Go bother someone else!"

"You lot nicer when you fat," Red huffed, crossing his arms.

"Do you _want_ to fall down the stairs again? Because I can easily arrange that."

Red was silent for a moment, then finally glared and blew a raspberry at the teen before heading out down the corridor. Terrence stared after him, not sure whether to be pissed or disturbed. He looked up at Frankie. "What the hell was _that_ about?"

Frankie sighed and leaned against the bedpost. "Bloo became his new teacher not too long ago," she informed him. "That was one of the _first_ things he's learned. You don't even _want_ to know what else I've seen them do."

The teen sighed. "I guess I'll just have to figure something out myse—OW!" He looked down his shirt at Darky. "Don't bite me!"

* * *

"Ooh, berry nice, Wilt!"

Wilt smiled and looked down at the snow-angel he'd created not too long ago. "Yeah, I like it, too," he replied, smiling down at Berry. "They'd probably call it the world's tallest snow-angel."

Berry giggled. "Probably." She rushed past the tire swing and leapt into the snow, popping her head out of the snowbank. "Okay, now who wants to make a snowman? I'm up for it."

"Ooh!" Eduardo exclaimed, running toward the snowbank and digging his hooves into the soft, frozen powder. "I get to make sculpture first!"

"Wow, Berry," Wilt commented as he approached the land past the tire swing, Coco trailing after him, the same blank stare in her eyes that she always held. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I've _ever_ seen you so happy before!"

Berry slid down the snowbank, landing at Wilt's feet, before getting up and brushing the snow off of her scarf. "Well, it's been a berry wonderful time, now that Darky's been born," she replied, smiling. "Look around you, Wilt. Has anything bad happened since that darling little creature came into this world? Anything at all?"

"Well…" Wilt pondered for a moment. "Eduardo spilled his juice the other day, but—"

"Not that!" she snapped angrily; her mood then softened. "I mean demon things, things like possessions and talismans and creepy guys walking around. Has any of that happened since Darky came to be?"

Wilt thought for a moments' more, then shook his head. "Nope. Not that I can think of."

"Si." Eduardo looked up from the mound of snow he was currently packing together. "Es quiet."

"_Co_ co-co," Coco stated suspiciously.

Wilt nodded. "Coco's right," he told the others. "It's _too_ quiet. I mean, Lucifer _is_ a bad guy, but I'm sorry, I don't think he just…just did that thing he did to Terrence just because he wanted to be a jerk. He's got something coming for us, guys."

"Cocococo, co co co co, coco," Coco told Berry warningly. "Coco Co co co co."

Berry glared at her words. "What?" she spat, her cheery mood fading; she stood up tall and looked Coco directly in the eyes, her teeth bared. "What are you _trying_ to do, Coco? Are you _trying_ to _ruin_ our good time?" Coco glared at her; she huffed and broke the stare, starting toward the direction of the Home. "Do what you want, 'cause _I don't care_! You're a _loony_, you stupid bird, you know that! A loon—AAAAUUUGGGGHHHH!"

She screamed as something grabbed her, wrapping itself around one of her arms, and hauling her into the air like a limp ragdoll; a second thing wrapped itself around her other arm and tugged, suspending her in midair. Gasping in fright, she looked around her, to see what on Earth was grabbing her, who was doing this to her—

Dear God. The trees. Their branches…she looked down at her paws. Their branches had been intertwined around her wrists like some type of natural shackle and were now hanging her, suspending her in midair. She could feel the pulse of life through their veins, sensed the demonic energy, and shivered, breaking away from the gaze of the branches.

"Berry!" she heard Wilt call, through the blood that was currently pulsating through her head. "Berry, it's gonna be okay! We're gonna get you down!"

The little magenta creature sensed a much stronger force, something much worse than simply being suspended by tree branches, and, her ears pricking, quickly called down in a panic, "No, Wilt! Stay away! These branches are posses—AAAAAAAAHHH!"

She cried out again as a third branch, covered in thorns, whipped out from beneath the tangle of branches and struck her in the back, with a force so great she almost felt her lungs squeeze through her ribcage. Gasping, she struggled to break free, but it was to no avail. The branch came again, whipping her across the back once more; she cried out again as she heard her spine crack.

Strike after strike, blow after blow, was dealt to her back, sides, and skull as she continued to cry for mercy, her scarf slipping off of her neck in bloodied tatters. Blood sprayed across the white snow, creating a peppermint effect

_Candy of the Damned—_

And tears continued to steam down her face, mixing with the rivulets of blood flowing down from her skull. Finally, her fur ripped and torn, her back flayed, and blood gushing from her like a water-sack, she leaned her head back and gave one final cry for help. The branches crumbled, suddenly, releasing her; she dropped to the ground, a bloody heap in the snow, red and white staining her magenta fur. Wilt, Eduardo, and Coco rushed up to her as she hid her face in one paw, tears still falling down her face.

"Berry! Oh my gosh!" Wilt reached down to help her. "Are you okay? We saw the whole thing! Oh, man, I am so sorry—we should totally get you to Frankie before your condition worsens—oh, man—"

Sniffling, she removed her paw from her face, wiping the tears away from her eyes with the other. She looked over, but she wasn't looking at Wilt, nor Eduardo, nor Coco.

She wasn't looking at her friends. No, not them.

The spirit of Mary Wilkes stood between the branches, amidst the bloodshed, transparent against the white-and-red snow. Her empty, hollow eyes traveled up to meet Berry's, and she smiled, revealing skeletal teeth. Her empty hole of a mouth then began to chant:

"Mary, Mary, quite contrary,

How does _your_ garden grow?

With silver bells, and cockleshells,

And _dead bodies all in a row_…"

* * *

"The Crown of David?"

"Yes, Ezekiel." The man, clothed entirely in robes, sat across the table from Rusty, currently looking down at a golden crown adorned upon a velvety red cushion. His dry lips curled into a smile. "You've done well, and it is my duty to see that you are given a proper reward."

Rusty looked up at him, swallowed, then blinked. "But, Father, the Crown of David—"

"—Will protect you from any demonic harm that may come to you." The man extended a wrinkled hand. "Remember, Ezekiel, Goliath came adorned with weapons, but David came with the Lord of Light on his side." He gestured toward the precious item. "Go ahead, try it on. See if it fits you."

Rusty looked down at the crown, then back up at the old man, and then back at the crown again. Finally summoning a deep breath, he took the crown up in his hands and slowly began to set it atop his head. It settled easily, and the moment he put it on he felt a sense of immediate power—power that was too great for him to handle. Quickly, he removed it and set it back on its cushion.

The man raised a white eyebrow. "Is something wrong, my dear Ezekiel?"

"It's—it's not you, Father, it's—it's just this crown." Rusty looked down at the Crown of David, feeling a slight sense of remorse. "When I put it on, I feel power—_too_ much power. I just don't think it would be good for me in the long run, is all."

"I understand." The man's blue eyes glimmered knowingly. "You are one of the best either way, Ezekiel. And when the time comes to show it, when the final battle begins, I'm sure that you'll pull through, crowned or not."

"Yes, Father." Rusty bowed his head, and just then a sudden thought came to mind. He raised his eyes to meet his leader. "Father…there is also something we must discuss before we begin our preparations for the final battle."

"Tell me," the man replied calmly, clasping his fingers together.

"Remember what happened around a month ago, when I made myself worthy of this promotion. I located the Bearer of the Devil's messenger for you, did I not?"

"Yes. And quite well, I might add."

"Yeah…yeah." Rusty rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "Anyway, I told you over the intercom that I refused to hurt the Bearer and that I didn't want any other harm to come to him, either way. Father, if you insist on me fighting in the final battle, I want you to ensure that this promise is kept."

The man shook his head. "I'm afraid I cannot do that, Ezekiel."

"What!" Rusty slammed his hands on the table, his eyes burning into the old man's. "Father, surely you jest. The Bearer is a close friend and he's been through _enough_, thank you very much." He could tell that he was blushing, but he really didn't care at the moment. "I swear to _God_ if you hurt him—"

"Don't you DARE give orders to me!" the man snapped, slamming a fist on the table; Rusty grimaced a little and drew back. "You are already a traitor to your kind. You don't need to be a traitor to _us_ as well!"

"Who's a traitor!" Rusty yelled angrily. "He's not even the one you _want_. It's Lucifer that you're after!"

"Mother and son must be destroyed as well," the man replied firmly, "or else it will fail to work. I raised you to be more perceptive than this, Ezekiel."

"Yeah, well, maybe you were wrong!" Rusty shouted back, balling his hands into fists. He turned around and began to storm out of the room. "This conversation is _over_, Father. I do not wish to speak to you until you see the error of your ways."

"_My_ ways!" The man stood up, angrily lurching over the table. "Don't you _dare_ start that with me. I know your secret, Rusty Nicola Kelbarker, and believe my word: I am _not afraid_ to tell it to the world."

Rusty glared angrily at the floor, but kept his lips sealed shut as he stormed out the door. His secret probably wouldn't be kept for long, anyway. Not with what was coming to be…

_

* * *

"Icara!"_

_The aging, brown-haired incubus looked up from his paperwork, his green eyes flashing cautiously as the winged imp approached him through the window. Slowly, his wings fanned out from his spine, dark-brown feathers grazing the tips of his seat, his wingspan almost filling his entire small office. The words "incubus" whispered, like evil voices, inside his mind as he stood up, folding his wings back into their proper place._

_"I come bearing a message from vice-devil Mammon," the imp replied, seating itself on Icara's windowsill. At the mention of the name the man-beast's lips drew back, revealing several rows of pointed teeth, causing the imp to flinch slightly._

_"Mammon," he repeated, coldly. "What is his purpose delivering me such a message?"_

_"That's exactly my point." The imp fanned its wings against the chilly pre-spring air. "Lucifer has told me that you have gone renegade. You have abandoned the demonite army and have wed a young woman by the name of Lucy."_

_The incubus's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Lucy died years ago," he responded coldly, folding his arms. "And what is his business if I have married a mortal or not?"_

_"Lucifer is not happy with renegade demons." The imp narrowed its eyes in return. "You thought you could get away with rising to the surface and corresponding with the mortal world, but you can never escape our master's watchful eyes. You left knowing full-well what the sentence for turning renegade was."_

_Icara's faced paled slightly, then he shook his head, ridding himself of the shock. He had left not giving a damn about the sentence, and he wasn't about to let the imp sense his fear now. His breathing shallow, he lowered his head, his pointed ears flattening._

_"Fine," he breathed, so softly that only the ones with the greatest of hearing could make out his words. His eyes traveled up to meet the imp's. "Let them take me."_

_"So it shall be." The imp snapped its clawed fingers as flames licked up from the walls, enveloping the room in a bright orange glow. "You were our greatest warrior, Icara. We shall miss you."_

_From outside the room, in the darkened hallway, a small child, clad in bright-blue footy-pajamas, came down the hallway, carrying an empty glass. He was going to ask his father for a drink of water, and tell him that he kept having nightmares about monsters roaming the Earth and was scared. Time and time again his father had told him that there were no such things as monsters, but the child seemed to know otherwise. Instead of simply being circumcised, his father's traits had been suspended from his body. Instead of listening to lullabies to fall asleep each night, he had heard the same words echoing in his ears as his father's:_

Incubus.

_He was still shivering, afraid of the dark, as he slowly reached for the doorknob that opened to reveal his father's office, balancing the glass carefully in one small hand. Twisting the doorknob, he opened it a few inches and glanced in, knowing that his father hated being disturbed while he was working hard. Ever since Lucy had died he had worked day and night to support the young child, and sometimes the child could sense his sadness. He had to be careful not to trigger anything—_

_He stopped and opened his mouth in a silent scream as he saw three shapes materialize in the room—one, a tall, muscular knight atop a two-headed steed; one, an emaciated man with long, greasy black hair and a long beard, and the last, a creature so hideous that it looked like it had been burned alive and run over with a semi-truck. The glass quaking in his hands, he watched as they approached his father, who had backed up against his desk, his eyes wild with fear and fury, his wings spread._

_"The Master is ashamed of you, Icara," the knight boomed angrily. "You were our greatest warrior, and yet you chose the path of light over darkness."_

_"Indeed," the man with the greasy black hair replied, withdrawing two wooden pegs from the robe he had tied around his waist. He raised the pegs to shoulder-length. "And do you not know—darkness CONQUERS ALL!"_

_At these last two words he flung the pegs like darts, impaling them into Icara's wings and pinning him to the wall. The incubus gave a scream of pain, as the knight rushed forward, brandishing his sword, and sliced each wing cleanly off from the spine. His beautiful, feathered wings now reduced to brown, tattered, and bloodied forms, he fell to the ground, his face buried in one arm, weeping silently. The knight towered over him, raising his sword, and preparing to plunge it into Icara's back—_

_"DADDY!"_

_The child couldn't help but cry out, and drop the glass in the process, causing it to shatter against the wooden floor of the hallway. The ugly demonite—the one who looked as if it had been burned alive—raised his head, his half-melted brown eyes boring into the young boy's. Finally, he barked out:_

_"There is another one—a child! Rasputin, take care of him._ Kill him. _Barados and I will take care of Icara."_

_"Yes, Glengar," the man with the greasy long hair—Rasputin, apparently—responded. Growling angrily at the little boy, he gave a loud yell and lunged for him, arms spread out, hands curling into animalistic claws. The child yelped and ducked, then began to run for the stairs. What was that number people always called when they were in trouble…?_

_Rasputin materialized in front of him, clawed hands clenched, teeth bared, and eyes wild with insanity. The child gulped, pressing himself tighter against the edge of the staircase._

_Because he sure as_ Hell _needed it now._

_Rasputin was now doing this creepy chant, much similar to the chants that he had heard every night throughout his life, but this time it was different. A form of dark energy appeared in his hands, and, grinning smugly at the little boy, he flung it in his direction. The child yelped and leapt out of the way as the ball struck, causing an explosion as the child tumbled head-over-heels down the stairs. His head struck the linoleum floor at the bottom, and his world went out._

_Next thing he could remember was someone's voice. Stirring slightly, he raised his head in time to see that the entire house had been reduced to a pile of ashes and rubble. His father was nowhere in sight. Sobbing to himself, he tried to open his mouth to wail but couldn't. Confused, he felt around his mouth._

_Dear God. It had been stitched shut. With thread and needle. No doubt Rasputin's doing; that evil, evil man…_

_He tried to cry out with his mouth closed, making loud moans and grunts, pounding at the charred walls that had caved in on him. Finally, the darkness broke away, revealing a woman's face. She seemed quite alarmed at the sight of him…why was that? He wondered. He was just a little boy…_

_"John, you'd better get over here," she called to someone outside the wreckage. "We've got a survivor after all—a little boy. Come down here and help me get him out."_

_The child waited as the woman's face went away, then two big, strong hands reached in and gently lifted him out of the rubble. He could feel the cold pre-spring breeze on his face as the man held him close; he scrunched up his nose and squeezed his eyes shut._

_He opened them again when he heard the woman's voice. "Oh, thank God he's all right," she sighed, as she reached out with a tissue to wipe his face clean. "He'll need some hospitalization to check for any injuries and to get those stitches off of his mouth—God knows how_ those _got there—but he should be okay." She looked up. "You've saved another one, Mr. Kraigen."_

_"It's what I do, Alice," he replied. The child liked his voice, it was so calm and soothing. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm gonna take this little tyke over to the ambulance."_

_Alice nodded, then walked away to further examine the damage. The big man looked down at the child, smiling, his ebony hair blowing in the breeze. "You're gonna be okay, little fella," he told the child, gently adjusting him in his arms. "I'm a father and I've got a kid at home myself. I think that you two would like each other." The child tilted his head slightly, out of confusion. "I'm gonna see you through the entire ride until you get proper care."_

_He stopped for a moment, then slowly used his fingers to brush a wisp of blond hair out of the child's face. _

"_Promise."_


	15. Wake the Dead

**SIXTH SUNDOWN**

**By Grand High Idol**

**_Under the arc of a weather stain boards,  
_**_**Ancient goblins, and warlords,  
**__**Come out of the ground, not making a sound  
**__**The smell of death is all around  
**__**And the night when the cold wind blows,  
**__**No one cares, nobody knows…**_

—**The Ramones, "Pet Semetary"**

**XIV.**

_Incubus._

Rusty knelt, staring at his reflection, at the edge of the frozen lake. He had looked the same as he always had—dirty-blond hair in a ponytail, dark blond goatee, and green eyes—but when he looked down this time he saw something different—not physically, but emotionally. He saw nothing but the licking flames of Hell winding themselves around him, like the arms of a lover. He sighed and closed his eyes, his breath a steaming cloud against the cold, February night air. How he wished he could snuggle with Terrence again…

_No! No, goddammit!_ He slapped himself across the face, then stood up and kicked a chunk of snow over the place where his reflection had been. This was exactly what he had been trying to avoid his entire life—the life of an incubus, a sexual demon created by the hands of Lucifer to do his bidding. But no matter how he had tried, fate had caught up with him.

He lay back against the snow, remembering the first time that he had become sexually active. He had been nine years old; the other had been sixteen—such a huge difference, but what did he care? He had nailed her as easily as a hammer does upon a board. He hadn't told Helena about it, as she would surely freak if she knew, and he kept that horrid secret to himself ever since. Wanting to make things right, he had decided to side with that horrible old man in order to rid the world of demons—and now look where it had gotten him! Because he didn't want to hurt Terrence; because he loved him, the haggard old priest had threatened to tell his secret to the world.

He sighed and slowly sank his head back into the snow. That was a secret that he couldn't keep any longer. He knew this very well.

Even though it was all a fog, he could remember the day that he was born. Lucy, his mother, had to have a C-section performed upon her because of Rusty's incubi features—the ones his father had suppressed long ago upon returning to the surface. Ram-like horns, a tail paying a striking resemblance to a lion's, eagle wings; red eyes, sharp teeth and claws that could bite through the toughest steel. Lucy had known that she had married an incubus, but she had never seen what they truly looked like—not until Rusty had been born. He could remember the screaming, the shouts, the repetitive cries of "Take it away! Take it away!" and, most of all, his father's shame in him; the shame that he could sense even from so far away. He had loved his father, but why didn't his father love _him_ upon the day of his birth? Why did he have to summon powers of Light to suppress his demonic features so that he would look like any other normal Surface child?

He lowered his head and sighed deeply; he knew why. Because his father couldn't stand having a demonite in the family—he had fled from the demonites and didn't want any of them—no matter what type—in his family. But his blood could not be denied. Helena had taken great care of him, but soon, he sensed, he would go back to Hell and remain a prisoner of his own sexual desires, as was the fate of all incubi and succubae now, as the ones before him.

_No_, he thought, sitting upright in the snow. _I won't let it happen. I'll defeat that bastard even if it kills me._

He looked up toward the sky. _And Lord knows it will_…

* * *

"You feeling all right, Berry?"

The magenta creature stirred from her sleep as Frankie, a look of utmost concern on her face, placed a warm, wet washcloth over her back, in hopes to loosen the clotted blood and to reduce the pain. Berry cringed slightly, then turned her head to look over at the redhead.

"Yeah…" she replied, weakly. "Aside from the searing pain and the fact that my back and sides are torn to shreds, I'm fine." She sighed and rested her head back onto the pillow she currently lay on.

Frankie gently rubbed the washcloth across her back. "Who did this to you?" she asked, as concerned as her face ascertained. "It looks like you were whipped. With something pretty tough. It wasn't Lucifer or the Soul Stealer again, was it?"

"No…" Berry coughed, sending a spray of blood across the clean white pillowcase. She moaned. "It was Mary Wilkes...her spirit. She came back. Coco…Coco warned me…she was right." Her eyes teared up; she buried her face in the pillow. "Why was I so incompetent with her? Why didn't I _listen_?"

"Don't blame yourself," Frankie replied soothingly, reaching out to stroke behind one of her ears. "_All_ of us don't listen to others, sometimes. I know that _I_ didn't when I was a kid, and, heck, I still don't sometimes today. It's just the way we _are_, Berry. It's no one's fault."

"I know…but sometimes…" Berry looked up at her, her brown eyes watery. "Sometimes you can't help but feel that it is. Sometimes you wish you'd gone back and done something _different_, you know?"

Frankie froze for a moment, remembering what had happened to her parents years ago, then sighed and nodded. "I know that feeling," she replied, hollowly.

"If Mary Wilkes is back…and if she managed to do this to me…" Berry gave a light sob and sank her head back into the pillow. "…It means that the demons can break the surface. It means that Lucifer isn't far behind with his dreaded Army—and believe me, it's horrendous. I've seen it."

"Don't worry about that right now, Berry," Frankie whispered softly to her, removing the bloodstained rag and wrapping her wounds up tightly in ace bandages. "All you need to worry about now is getting better." She pulled a blanket over the little magenta friend, then gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Good night. Get some rest."

Berry opened one eye lazily. "Okay," she murmured, "just…just leave the door partway open, okay? That way I'll be able to escape if Mary Wilkes comes back."

"Mary Wilkes is _not_ going to come back," Frankie replied firmly. "And even if she does, you'll have all of us to protect you." She approached the door and blew a kiss. "Sweet dreams, Berry."

She then stepped outside into the foyer, sighing, draping her arms around her chest and hugging her shoulders tightly to herself. Why did this have to happen? She thought to herself. And to so many of the Friends who'd she'd promised to take care of and make sure that they didn't get hurt…? _Why_…?

"Miss Francis?"

She turned in time to see Mr. Herriman, standing in the foyer, his arms tucked neatly behind his back and his head raised, again looking like the quite formal rabbit that he was. "Miss Francis," he repeated, folding his arms in front of his chest, "How goes the scheduled recovery of Miss Berry?"

Frankie inhaled a deep breath through her teeth. "Not so well," she sighed; she then looked at Herriman sorrowfully, her emerald-green eyes slowly filling with tears as she spoke. "Why did this have to happen? Why does this _keep_ happening?"

"Now, now, Miss Francis, I'm fairly sure that there's a complete scientific explanation for all of this—"

"_FUCK_ you!" Frankie screamed, whipping away from him with such force that the rabbit could hear the swish of her overcoat. "_Fuck_ you and your science!" She turned back to face him, her eyes filled with tears and wild in anger. "Around four or more months ago four different Friends and a little boy were put in extreme danger on _my_ behalf. Cerberus became sick, and I couldn't cure him. Berry went hysterical and almost _died_, and now it's happened _again_!" Her voice broke on the last two words; she buried her face in the long sleeves of her overcoat. "Why does this keep happening, Mr. H? _Why_?"

Mr. Herriman had been taken aback by her words at first, but seeing her sad was not something he enjoyed; his ears drooped slightly and he hopped over by her side. She was close to tears now; he could sense it. Gently, he placed a hand on her shoulder.

"_Why couldn't it have been Duchess_!" Frankie finally cried out to the ceiling, before falling into Herriman's arms, wrapping her own tightly around his shoulders, and sobbing. "Why not Duchess…ss…ss…" The last word broke with each sob she took in; Herriman held her closer, running his gloved hands through her silky red hair. For some reason he was feeling something warm within him; something he had never felt before, for this beautiful redheaded girl. Was it bad? Was it good? He quickly shook off these thoughts; this was certainly not the issue right now.

"Science or spiritual, logical or illogical, we'll find a way to put a stop to this, Miss Francis," he whispered softly to her. He gently rubbed her back. "Even if we have to raise the dead."

* * *

The town cemetery was silent; the gravestones coated with white snow, the trees bare, giving it a morbid, black-and-white look against the February night sky. In the center of the area was the monument that the town was semi-famous for—a large statue of the angel Gabriel, seated atop a winged steed and brandishing a sword. His empty, granite eyes looked on as a gray mist appeared, and five figures materialized in front of him. The leader of the posse, Rasputin, reared his head up toward the sky, grinning at the full moon that lay overhead, his teeth yellowing and rotted. He lowered his head toward the remainder of the posse—random demonites summoned to do Lucifer's bidding.

"It's a lovely night to wake the dead," the greasy-haired man commented, folding his bony hands across his chest. He turned to the remainder of the party. "Hand me the Necronomicon! Immediately! Lucifer doesn't want this ritual stalled."

One of the demonites held a book in its hands; it immediately slithered up and handed the book to Rasputin. The mad monk's fingers traced its surface—bound in human flesh, inked in human blood, this text by the ancient Sumerians was the darkest form of literary Satanism possible. The demonite army possessed the only original copy—which gave them a high advantage over dark spiritual rituals. Grinning, Rasputin opened the book and skimmed through the worn, yellowing pages, until he finally stopped. His fingers traced down along the blood-red text until he found the exact passage he was looking for.

"Time to summon the army," he whispered; his head then lowered as he began his chant. "_N'uth Bala Ia Tuluth…N'uth Bala Ia Tuluth_…Come alive, my fellow damned…"

The demons began in on the chant, their heads lowered, their bony hands clasped together. Rasputin raised his head toward the gravestones and began to cry out as the demons continued their chanting:

"Scrape the maggots from your skin! Shake the soil from your bones! The time has come to prove your worth!"

"_N'uth Bala Ia Tuluth…N'uth Bala Ia Tuluth_…"

"Let your soulless bodies become mobile! Let your rotting brains once again develop instinct!"

"_N'uth Bala Ia Tuluth…N'uth Bala Ia Tuluth_…"

The ground beneath the gravestones began to quake slightly. Rasputin grinned, then continued to shout out to the dead that could hear his cry:

"The Dark Lord Lucifer commands you! _RISE_!"

At the last cry, there was an echo throughout the graveyard, then the quaking ceased. The posse ceased their chanting and waited patiently, until at last a bony hand erupted from the earth and began clawing at the dirt surrounding it. One by one, hands, legs, and skulls began popping out of the snow-covered ground like sprouts, clawing their way through the dirt, moaning, speaking in unintelligible tongues. Their soulless bodies lurched forth out of the dirt; their hollow eye sockets looked up toward the party that had risen them. They stood, like an army of soldiers, in a line; some of their jaws dropped slightly; others leaned over, and still others continued to crawl along due to missing limbs. Rasputin shook his head at this sorry sight of zombies—if that was the appropriate term to call them—and spoke out:

"My fellow Damned! Welcome, once again, to the World of the Living! Welcome, once more, to the Surface!"

The beings shifted their heads back and forth, observing the land around them, before finally staring back at Rasputin blankly. The long-haired man knew quite well that he would get nowhere with an army as low-intelligence as this, but he hadn't been deemed "The Puppet Master" for nothing. Focusing his energy on the undead crowd in front of him, he shut his eyes and began to chant again, speaking in tongues.

For awhile there was silence; then, suddenly and without warning, a vast amount of dark energy erupted out of the ground, splitting like atoms and taking on the forms of depressed or demented men. These nearly-transparent shadows were created to locate the nearest soulless body to corrupt and do their job—and that was exactly what they did. One by one, these creatures entered the bodies of the risen dead, bringing them to life, giving them personalities, intelligence, and the gift of language. They all stood to attention as Rasputin ceased his chanting, then lowered his hand and looked down upon his newfound army.

"Warriors of the Damned!" he cried out, "The end of an era is soon to come! Prepare to fight! Prepare to live! Prepare…to _WIN_!"

"Hail!" The warriors responded, pumping their skeletal fists. "Hail! Hail! Hail!…"

They continued this chant as Rasputin folded his arms, leaning against the statue of the angel Gabriel. He looked up at the statue, staring into its hollow, granite eyes; he was not fazed in the least. Instead, he grinned and spat at the statue's feet.

"The almighty Gabriel," he commented, sneering ever so slightly. "Just wait and see what I have in store for you…"

* * *

Darky slept fretfully, even though he was snuggled against his mother's warm embrace. He continued to have nightmares—nightmares of catastrophic proportions. He knew that Lucifer would come for him one way or another…and the demon was only beginning to toy with his mind, he feared.

Flattening his ears to muffle out the moans and cries that wafted through his eardrums like poisonous fumes, he flattened himself out, keeping one eye open as he looked out toward the window.

They would come. There was no doubt about that.

And they would have to be ready.

For anything.

For Hell was only _beginning_ its ascent to Earth. This was only the preparation.


	16. Father Simon

**SIXTH SUNDOWN**

**By Grand High Idol**

**_He's the hunter, and you're the prey_  
****_And the Sweet Lord Jesus shall lead the way_  
**_**In his guilt he shall despise you,**_  
_**Victimize you, then sodomize you  
**__**In the fever of his lust  
**__**He will turn your faith, into dust  
**__**The Siren of Desire is screeching  
**__**It takes a priest to unleash the beast…**_

**—Inkubus Sukkubus, "Preacher Man"**

**XV.**

Frankie awoke the next morning in Herriman's bed.

At first she was shocked, but after remembering the events of last night, she realized what had happened: after her breakdown, she hadn't wanted Herriman to leave her and insisted that he spend the night in her room. Herriman had refused, saying that it was "preposterous"—not to mention that there was hardly any room for both of them to slumber together. She had then offered the idea of her sleeping in his quarters, which he had at first begun to protest, but seemed rather embarrassed—judging by the way that he was blushing, anyway—and had agreed upon it. Later in the night, Frankie had climbed into Herriman's bed, feeling that the cot was uncomfortable, and had slept quite nicely throughout the night—nicely, that is, if you feel that everything horrible that happens is _your_ fault, anyway. Heaving a deep sigh, she got up and stretched before lying back down next to the large rabbit creature.

She lay for a few moments, looking up at the ceiling, until Herriman stirred. Yawning, he stretched, then snuggled back under his blanket—unaware that, in the process, he had draped his arm around Frankie's shoulders. Frankie was slightly taken aback at first, but after awhile she came to her senses. She playfully tapped Herriman on the nose.

"Mr. H?" she murmured to him; he groaned and stirred slightly.

"Yes, Miss Francis?" he replied, groggily, wiping at one eye. "What is it?"

"Um…" She gestured toward where Herriman's arm currently was laid; the rabbit immediately bolted upright, blushing immensely, the covers drawn up to his face in a weak attempt to conceal his embarrassment.

"Miss Francis, I did not mean it like that," he replied, the tone of embarrassment still clear in his tone. "I sincerely apologize for any discomfort I may have caused you—"

"No—Mr. H, it's _all right_," she replied, placing a hand on his shoulder. She then laid back down. "Now, let's try to get a little bit more sleep before we prepare for the breakfast shift, okay? And before _Duchess _wakes up."

She snuggled back down into her side of the bed; Mr. Herriman slowly withdrew the covers from his face and, after taking much thought into consideration, laid down next to her and gently slipped his arm under her lovely head, gently stroking her fiery red hair with his fingers. It wasn't until around five minutes after Frankie dozed off that he finally went back to sleep, as well.

* * *

_"Berry! Berry, where's the tea? Mr. Huggy is _thirsty_, already!"_

_Trying her hardest to keep herself under control, Berry searched the shelves for the special tea that Mary's parents had used for years—and that Mary herself was using, too, now that they had long since passed on. But she was still here. And she still refused to give up Berry, or even let Berry have some time to herself. It was slowly eating away at her fragile structure, and she was certain that if she had to have ONE MORE tea party, she would die…_

_Her ear tufts pricked. _Die_. Of course. That was it. If Mary were to suddenly suffer an excruciating death, with no trace of evidence, she'd be free to go—to do whatever she pleased. To live, laugh, love. She smiled at these thoughts—but how on Earth was she going to attempt to get rid of Mary once and for all without suspicion…?_

_As she opened one of the cabinets, she was discouraged that she did not find the tea…but her spirits brightened, for she had found something else…something even better. The jar of liquid rat poison looked back at her from the shelf, as if begging to be used…begging to help in the_ _permanent extermination of Mary Wilkes. The magenta creature's eye twitched slightly, and she was about to close the cabinet and look in the next one when a thought sprang into her mind, a thought that she could not erase:_

If you do this, Mary will be gone _forever_. You'll be your own free Friend. You can go wherever you please, do everything you'd dreamed of doing but couldn't with Mary in the way.

_"There's no hope," she simply replied, and began shimmying over to the next cabinet, but her conscience would not give up without a fight._

Do you want to spend your entire _life_ like this? A victim of your own creator? A mistreated, angry, miserable imaginary friend? No, Berry dear, you deserve better than this. _Much_ better. And you know what you must do in order to get it.

_Berry stopped to think for a moment, then her gaze traveled back to the container of rat poison on the table. It was clear, so it wouldn't show up...and Mary always liked lots of cream and sugar in her tea; she knew that from years of playing tea party with that horrible woman. With those added tastes, it would be highly unlikely that she'd notice the taste of the poison, either. It was just too perfect, and it was there, right in front of her, the perfect crime, the perfect escape to freedom…_

_She had made up her mind. Quickly grabbing the bottle of rat poison off of the shelf, she set it down on the counter and resumed looking for the tea, which she found, sure enough, in the next cabinet. Taking the pot of boiling water from the stove, she quickly opened the top and dumped the entire bottle in before resuming to fill the teacups. _She_ wouldn't drink the tea, of course, but Mary, on the other hand…_

_"Berry!"_

_"I'm coming!" Berry snapped angrily, pouring the poisoned water into the individual teacups._

_"Beeeeerrrrryyyyyy…!"_

"Berry?"

"I _said_ I was _coming_!" Berry shouted, bolting upright; it was then that she noticed that she was in bed. Sighing, placing a paw to her head, she gently shook it. "Oh…it…it was only a dream…"

Bloo and Mac, who were standing beside the bed, looked at each other for a moment, then shrugged. Mac held up a tray that contained a glass of orange juice and a steaming bowl of a mush-like substance. "Here, Berry," Mac said courteously, setting the tray on Berry's bed. "We brought you breakfast."

"Yeah, we figured that, what with the beating you took yesterday and all, you couldn't handle solid food just quite yet," Bloo added, leaning against his best friend's shoulder. "So we had Frankie make this special."

Berry looked down at the bowl of steaming mush, then smiled weakly. "Well, that's berry nice of you…and Frankie," she replied, "but I really don't feel hungry right now. I think—I think I'll just lay low this morning, if you don't mind."

Mac nodded, then took the tray. "Fine," he replied, though sounding in good spirits about it. "I'll just find someone else to eat it."

Bloo snorted. "Yeah, good luck finding someone who'll _eat_ that stuff." He gestured toward the bowl. "I mean, seriously, _look_ at it! It looks like that thing One-Eye Fluffy spit up last week!"

Mac smiled, a slight trace of smugness clearly visible. "Oh, don't worry, I think I know someone who will," he replied; he then walked out of the room, oatmeal in hand. Steadying the tray carefully with one hand, he then cupped his mouth with the other and called out, "Darky! Here, boy! Come on! Uncle Mac's got a yummy treat for you, yes he does!"

No sooner had he shouted these words than had Darky come bounding around the corner and down the hallway, forked tongue hanging out to one side. Mac smiled and set the bowl down in front of the demonite hybrid, who immediately began to devour it with the sloppiness of a barn hog. The little boy sat cross-legged on the floor, watching him eat.

He was amazed at how quickly Darky was growing, even though half of him was, although not shown, decidedly human. It had only been around a month or so since Terrence had given birth, and Darky was already showing the signs of maturing into an adult—his fur had grown longer and glossier, the glassiness that had been in his eyes as a newborn had faded, his teeth were sharper, and he was beginning to sprout horns from the top of his head. He was also noticeably larger; Mac estimated that the creature had grown about three or four inches since he had first been conceived. Darky licked the remnants of oatmeal that were left out of the bowl, then ran his tongue over his lips and looked at Mac, almost thankfully. Mac smiled back at the creature and reached over to pat him on the head.

"It's good to see that at least _one_ of us is doing okay," he told the demonite; Darky gave a light wag of his tail and approached Mac, lovingly placing his head on his uncle's knees. Mac stroked him softly, smiling; Bloo, who was watching from the background, huffed angrily and folded his blobby arms.

"I still don't see what makes _him_ so special and not me," he replied, a trance of envy in his voice. "_I'm_ just as nice and cute and cuddly as _he_ is. Why doesn't anyone treat _me_ like that?"

"Bloo, you're my best friend, and nothing will ever change that," Mac replied, taking Darky up in his arms. "We went over this before. But Darky is only a baby, and he needs more attention than the others usually get. Do you understand?"

Bloo rolled his eyes. "Oh yeah, he's a baby, all right," he huffed, leaning against the doorway to Berry's room. "_Terrence _and_ the Devil's _baby."

Mac narrowed his eyes. "Bloo, stop it!" he snapped. "Terrence didn't even _want_ to have Lucifer's kid. Lucifer _forced_ him to. How many times do you and I have to go _over _this!"

"Um, let's see…" Bloo thought for a moment. "Accordingly, you already told me this sixty-seven times in the past two weeks. Why do you ask?"

Mac clapped his hand to his face, then set Darky down beside him before continuing, "Bloo, listen to me. I know that you have a short attention span, but it would take a _miracle_ to not forget what happened over four months ago. And from what we've seen, and what Berry's experienced, Lucifer is _definitely_ planning a return to the surface." He turned to pat Darky on the head. "Therefore, it is irrelevant that we defend Darky with our _lives_. If Lucifer gets ahold of him—"

"—The entire world as we know it will be destroyed, blah, blah, blah." Bloo repeated this mockingly, then rolled his eyes. "I already _know_ that, Mac! I just don't get why you're giving Darky so much attention and not me."

"Because he's a—oh, never mind." Mac picked up the bowl and began walking down the hallway, Darky bounding behind him. "I'm going to go take this back to the kitchen. I'll talk to you later."

"Yeah, later," Bloo called down the hallway, before shaking his head. "Man, I know Mac is my best friend and all, but he _seriously_ needs to get a reality check. I mean—"

"Bloo?" Berry asked sweetly, from the other side of the threshold; the little blue blob turned to face her.

"Yeah?"

"I would appreciate it berry much if you would, oh, I don't know—" Her tone suddenly became vicious. "—_Get the hell OUT of my bedroom_!" Her voice calmed a little; she pulled the blanket up over her chest. "I'm trying to sleep, and you're being a little too noisy for my tastes."

"Okay, okay, yeesh," Bloo muttered; he then stepped out of the doorway and began to head down the hall, toward the direction of the arcade. He rolled his eyes. "Women. Sometimes it's a miracle in itself that _anyone_ can understand them."

* * *

"Terrence?"

The raven-haired teenager, who had been snoozing on the couch in the lounge, stirred when he heard Frankie's voice calling. He flipped over, in time to see the redhead dusting the mantle with one hand, pointing toward the direction of the window with the other. Terrence was slightly confused by this show of actions.

"Yeah?" he asked, rubbing at one eye. "What is it…?"

"Your boyfriend is here to see you." Frankie shot him a wide smile before continuing with her dusting, keeping her back to him. "He's over at the window."

"Really—hey, wait!" Terrence was suddenly defensive as he folded his arms. "He's _not _my—"

"Boyfriend?" Frankie finished, stifling a giggle with her free hand. "Oh, don't be so embarrassed about it; I won't tell anyone. I doubt that anyone else even _knows_ yet."

"I told you already, he—" Terrence began, but found that it would've been in vain; Frankie had already returned to her dusting duty. Sighing, he heaved himself off the couch and rushed to the window in time to see Rusty standing outside. Smiling, he quickly dashed out of the room and to the front door, where he quickly flung it open and ran out to Rusty, jumping into his arms and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Hey!" Rusty exclaimed happily, tightly hugging Terrence around the waist and returning the kiss. "Terr, how are you doing? How's life treating you?"

"I've felt worse," Terrence replied; he reached up to brush a strand of dirty-blond hair away from Rusty's face. "Things have just been kind of…well…confusing…"

Rusty nodded; for awhile both of them were lost in one-another's eyes. Then, finally, Rusty took Terrence by the hand and gently tugged him away from the front door, out into the cold February air, toward the main gates that surrounded Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends. His blond hair fell over his face in wisps, which warmed Terrence from the inside-out and filled him with a pleasure he couldn't hold back. He wrapped his arms around his lover and was about to kiss him when Rusty placed a finger to his lips, holding him back.

"No, Terrence," he said (was that a trace of sadness in his voice? Terrence couldn't tell), "Not this time. Not now, at least."

Terrence's brow furrowed in concern, normally Rusty was so offbeat and happy, and he had been that way until they had reached the gates of Foster's. Why was he so sad, serious, and distant now…? Was it something that he had done? Or—God forbid—was Rusty planning on breaking up with him, now? Just at the peak of their relationship, when they'd had a wonderful thing going—

"Terrence, I like you. I like you a _lot_." Rusty said, blushing slightly. "But I never told you my deepest, darkest secrets…what I _really_ do for a living when you're not around." He wrapped his arms around the raven-haired teen's waist, his brown eyes burning directly into Terrence's gray ones. "And lovers have a right to know _everything_ about each other, right?"

"Rusty, what are you getting at?" Terrence raised an eyebrow in suspicion. "What the hell are you _talking_ about?"

Rusty heaved a deep breath. "I need you to come with me." He took Terrence by the hand and began tugging him away from the Home. "There's something I need you to know…and there's something that I must _show_ you, as well."

* * *

Father Simon stood, waiting, at the gates to the cathedral, waiting in the brisk pre-Spring air. His white robes billowed around him, and he could feel his aging face beginning to grow cold. Still, he waited, arms folded in his sleeves for aided warmth, as he waited for his newfound Messenger to come.

And sure enough, as he thought about these words, two figures came running toward the church, over the grassy plantation upon which it was built. The skeletal trees overshrouding them, the Father slowly stepped forward as the two figures—now recognized as two teenage boys—approached. The one in front, his Messenger, his Ezekiel, now stood with his hands on his knees, panting; the other, his companion, seemed confused. The Father looked upon this raven-haired boy with great disgust; he was responsible for what was to come; that and the abomination that he had unwisely decided to give birth to. However, he forced a smile to his face and stepped in front of the two to greet them.

"Greetings, my dear boys," he said, his voice calm and kind. The raven-haired boy seemed to relax a little; an almost cold smirk played at the corner of the priest's mouth. "I am glad that you could make it, Rusty Nicola Kelbarker." He placed a hand on Rusty's shoulder and gestured toward the entrance to the building with the other. "Do come in, boys. I'm sure that you're cold from running all this way."

Terrence cocked an eyebrow, wondering how on Earth the priest could've _known_ something like that, but he shrugged it off as quickly as it had hit him; he could never understand priests, and as far as he saw it there was no sense in trying to understand one now. Stepping after the two, he began to make his way up the marble steps to the cathedral's entrance.

He was on the second step when he felt a jolt, almost like electricity, shoot through his body. He cringed for a second, then realized that, no matter how much he did not want to be associated with Lucifer, the Demon's blood still ran through his veins. He was still thinking through this when he felt Rusty's hand encircle his shoulder and lead him the rest of the way up the stairs, and into the entrance.

They stopped at the threshold. "You okay, Terr?" he heard Rusty's voice say; calmly, quietly.

"Yeah, I think so—" Terrence began, but the remainder of his words were drowned out by a shout from the priest:

"_THE DOMINATIO DE CHRISTUS COGERES TIBI_!"

Father Simon then thrust out his hand; Terrence was suddenly thrown forward into the church like a mere meat-puppet, an unseen force shoving him from behind. He landed hard on one of the pews, slicing his forehead open, then skidded across the marble floor to the altar and remained still.

Rusty was horrified. "Father—" He swallowed, then repeated his words. "Father, what are you _doing_!"

Father Simon looked straight at him; his features were now cold, cruel. "You were my best student, Ezekiel," he growled, still keeping an eye on Terrence, who was now sprawled out in front of the Crucifix statue, not moving. "And now I see that you're deciding to side with the boy on this one. I give you _one_ simple assignment and you don't have the heart to make do away with him! What sort of incubus does that make you!"

Rusty stared at him, pure hatred rising from the cores of his soul. He could feel his wings poking out from his skin, dying to spread themselves and take off. He wanted to mouth off to the Priest but didn't; instead, he quickly ran to the spot where Terrence was.

Gently nudging his lover, he spoke. "Terrence…? Terrence, it's Rusty…Terr, please, I know you can hear me!"

"You show such…such _compassion_," he heard Father Simon's words echo behind him. "I've never really seen this much for another boy, let alone one who was chosen to bear the Forbidden Child, but…" He stopped. "Rusty…don't tell me that you're in _love_ with this wasted piece of flesh…?"

Rusty blushed frivolously but said nothing, keeping his lips sealed shut. A massive pain sprang to his head as his horns, the horns that he had had since birth, threatened to spring from the skull and grow forth unto his hideous appearance. This was more than enough, however, for Father Simon to determine.

"You…you _love_ him." The priest was aghast; a few more moments of silence followed before he finally continued, his voice firm: "Ezekiel, you know that I cannot allow such actions to take place. You have broken the Bibles' every rule from Day One. Ezekiel, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to—"

"Have to _what_!" Rusty shouted at him angrily, still holding Terrence tightly in his arms. "He's not even the one you want! If you're so damn desperate to get this 'Forbidden Child' or whatever the _hell_ you call it, go get IT instead!"

It wasn't until the words finally sunk in that Rusty had realized what he had just said. He looked up at Father Simon, who was now looking at him with great interest.

"And just where _is_ this Forbidden Child?" he asked intently.

Rusty, still heaving in dry breaths, growled in response. "I'll never tell you," he replied, and without a further moments' notice, he had disappeared beneath the altar, emitting a loud screeching noise in the process of doing so.

Father Simon stood up, brushing off his robes, and gently folded his hands together. It wouldn't be long, he knew. Rusty was already beginning to turn incubus. And when the process was finished…

He smiled coldly. Perhaps things would turn out _his_ way after all.

* * *

Rusty and Terrence landed in the center of what appeared to be a secret organization headquarters. It was decorated head to toe with crosses; stocked on one side of the wall was an entire arsenal of weaponry—weaponry to fight demonic forces. As Terrence slowly came to on the floor of the place, he could swear he could hear a horse's braying from someplace off…

He groaned, rubbed his head, then got to his feet; the place where he had struck the pew had created a heavy scratch, and it was now seeping blood down the side of his face. It stung every now and then, but it wasn't something to be worried about. Standing in the center of the room, he looked around before turning to Rusty.

"Rusty, what the hell is this—"

"Back off, demonic scum!"

He jumped, then whipped around in time to face three other teenagers, each one wearing a strange outfit and headband, and equipped with medieval weaponry—sprinkled with holy water, no doubt. He growled angrily and stood to fight, balls of dark energy forming around his fists, but Rusty cut in front of him, speaking to the team:

"Moses, Abel, Ester, back off. This is Terrence. This is the one I was telling you about, remember?"

"Terrence…? Oh!" The female member of the group seemed embarrassed. Looking over Rusty's shoulder, she gave him a gentle wave.

Rusty smiled. "Terrence, I said I'd tell you what I do for a living, and I won't lie." He turned to face the raven-haired teen, then gestured to the three figures standing beside him. "This is my team."

Terrence appeared confused. "Your…your _team_…?"

Rusty nodded. "Terrence, meet the greatest force that the demonite race has had to reckon with all of these years. Meet….the Hell Hunters."


	17. Invasion

**SIXTH SUNDOWN**

**By Grand High Idol**

**XVI.**

Mac was exhausted, and had drifted off to sleep as soon as the lights began to dim outside; however, he was not asleep long before Darky's weak cries filled the atmosphere. Yawning, he sat up, rubbing at his eyes, and blinked in order to see into the darkness of the room. Darky's cries of utter despair continued, and he immediately stood at ready, but there was no one in the room…no one but Bloo, who had fallen asleep in an armchair near the fire, and Berry, who was snuggled up next to him. His gaze traveled to one of the bigger picture windows, the one that Darky's little claws were scraping at, yowling, crying distressfully. Mac quickly dashed over to see what the trouble was, but when he gazed out the window he saw nothing. Sighing, he gently picked up the crying infant and carried him over to the couch. He set him on his lap, trying to calm him down, but the cries continued.

Bloo stirred from his sleep, shielding his eyes from the light of the fire. "Nngh…Mac, what _is_ that?"

"It's Darky, Bloo," Mac informed him. He gently held the wailing demonite on his lap. "Something's wrong. Something's really _really_ wrong."

Bloo snorted, then snuggled back into the chair. "He's probably just hungry, is all," the blue blob replied. "Wait until Terrence gets home and then he'll stop his stupid crying."

"But I _fed him_ an hour ago," Mac protested. He drew Darky closer to him and started stroking the demonite child's head, trying to coax him out of crying. "It's okay. It's okay. Come on, stop it. Your mother's alright. Your uncle's here. Everything's going to be fi—"

"OH MY GOD!"

Bloo cried out as something struck the glass; something solid, big, and heavy. A deafening _THUNK_ sound rang out through the room as the thing hit, then staggered backward. Still carrying the yowling Darky in his arms, Mac quickly rushed to the window and looked out.

Nothing. Sighing, he drew his gaze back to the attention of Bloo and Berry, who had awoken from her slumber thanks to Bloo's scream of terror. Rubbing her eyes, she yawned and stretched, leaping off the chair. "Mac? Bloo?" She looked from one to the other. "What's going on?"

"That's _exactly_ what I'd like to know." Mac narrowed his eyes at Bloo, who still seemed to be in a light state of shock. He held up his blobby hands in defense.

"Mac, I swear I saw something hit the window!" he exclaimed, the terror evident in his voice. "And no, it wasn't a bird and it wasn't Eduardo, either. It looked like…like a _zombie_ or something."

Mac rolled his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief. "Bloo, I cannot _believe_ you," he told his best friend; Darky's yowls had subsided and he was now looking out the window, ears pricked. "You've been watching _way_ too many horror movies. How many times do I have to tell you that there's _no such things_ as—"

_THUNK!_

Darky gave a loud yowl of shock and squirmed in Mac's arms as the thing that had startled Bloo earlier struck the window again—and this time, Mac could clearly see it in full detail. His pupils narrowing in shock, he staggered backward, almost dropping the little demonite that he held in his arms.

Sure enough, a being had pressed itself against the window—and it was obviously in too bad a condition physically to be alive. He could see the clumps of rotting flesh clinging to the bare bone, the bare eye socket, the swiveling eyeball in the other eye, darting in all directions; he could even see the few hairs that the thing had left on its head. It growled angrily; a thick, sticky green substance flowed from its mouth, staining the glass as it trickled down in thick globs. Mac placed a hand over his mouth to prevent himself from vomiting, turned away, then looked to face the thing again.

"See!" Bloo told the boy, jumping up and down in the chair like a frantic child. "See! See! I _told_ you it was a zombie!"

Mac swallowed hard, then shakily got to his feet, the shock beginning to wear off at last. Berry rushed to his side, clinging to his arm. "Yeah," the boy said, his voice still shaking slightly, "but my question is, why is it _here_?"

"Mac, weren't you paying _any _attention during 'Dawn of the Dead'?" Bloo snapped at him, raising an arm as if to make a point. "It wants _us_! It wants to eat our FLESH!" He cried out the last word in utter despair, clutching both arms to his chest dramatically. Mac rolled his eyes again, then looked down toward Berry, who was shivering so hard that he could actually feel the vibrations of her little body on his. He reached down to pat her on the head sympathetically.

"What's wrong?" he asked the magenta Friend. "Do you know anything about what's going on?"

Berry swallowed, then nodded her head. "I-it's a soldier from the Army of the Damned," she whispered, the words coming from her mouth barely audible. "The Puppet Master has risen the dead, and that can only mean one thing…" She looked up at Mac, her brown eyes quivering in fear. "Lucifer's coming to the Surface. And soon."

"But what does it want?" Mac exclaimed, as he heard the creature slam against the window again; he cringed as he heard several cracking noises that clearly stated that the window was going to give way. "Why's it coming here?"

"It wants Darky." Berry turned her head toward the demonite child, who was now crouching underneath the couch, shivering. "That's all that Lucifer needs to unlock the Scroll, and he's willing to put up more than a good fight in order to open it." She looked toward the little boy despairingly. "Even if it means killing us."

At that precise moment, there was an immensely loud shattering sound as the window finally gave way, and the zombie creature began to crawl in through the window, teeth bared, eyes fixated on the three friends. Its one good eye swiveled to meet Berry, then Bloo, and then Mac, before it spoke, in clear English (though it was raspy and sounded like the thing was talking through a bad microphone):

"_Where's the Child_?"

Darky gave a loud shriek of terror and darted out from under the couch, running for the entrance to the corridor, but he was immediately cut off when a pair of ghostly hands unexpectedly shot out from the wall and grabbed him around the waist. Squealing like a piglet, he kicked, thrashed, and struggled as the figure from inside the wall surfaced. It turned its head toward the three, a twisted grin breaking out on once-beautiful features, empty eyes peering out through tangled locks of light brown hair…

Berry gasped, and her eyes widened. "No!" she cried out, recognizing that the phantasm before her was her dreaded creator.

Mary Wilkes, still holding the squealing Darky, floated into the room, coming to a halt in front of her little imaginary friend. "Hello, Berry," she whispered, in a happy, girlish voice with its usual demonic air. "It's been a _long time_ since we played last."

She held up Darky, one of her hands encircling his throat as she spoke, her empty stare still fixated on the magenta Friend. Berry's mouth was quivering and her eyes clearly showed fear, but she held her ground. It _was_ for the good of the Army of Light, after all…if they were ever coming in time…

Mary's hands tightened around Darky's throat, cutting off his squealing, before she spoke again, tilting her head to one side at an almost impossible angle:

"Why don't we play _right now_?"

* * *

"The…Hell Hunters…?"

Rusty nodded, smiling weakly, as if to break the tension that had now become so thick in the atmosphere around them. "Catchy name, isn't it? Back in the Medieval ages we were called the 'Demon Slayers', but that name kinda wore off after King Arthur's reign." He shrugged. "What are ya gonna do?"

"Um…" Terrence blinked, still trying to get over the disbelief that his best friend was actually a member of a demonite hunting squad. He shook his head slightly, as if to clear the thoughts from his mind. "So, you guys hunt demonites…?"

The tall, freckled boy with the dark hair nodded. "Yes," he replied. "We basically track down any demonite that happens to arise to the Surface, and then we destroy it, send it back to Hell, before it can do any damage." He stopped to brush a wisp of hair back from one eye. "It's not an easy job, and only a select few can do it—and they can't be non-superstitious. That's why this organization is so secret—nowadays people don't believe in demons and angels and all that mumbo-jumbo, when it really _does_ exist."

"I can see that." Terrence casually shoved his hands in his pockets and looked toward the corner of the room, where a pile of bones—human bones—lay, and various welding tools lined the wall. He pointed to the bones. "Ah…may I ask what you're doing with…?"

"Those?" Rusty finished the sentence for him, nodding toward the bones. "Oh, don't worry about those; that's just our ammo. Over the years the Hell Hunter technique has improved. Back when the organization was first founded, we used to use Holy Water and crosses, but during the Puritan ages someone found out that a Believer's flesh is unbearable." He walked over, picked up one of the bones, holding it casually. "There's a cemetery in the back of this church, as well as a cemetery near the foster home where I reside. I know the undertaker there, and he knows about our organization and supports its cause. We dig up many bodies there…including marked graves."

"Isn't that illegal?" Terrence raised an eyebrow doubtfully.

"They probably know it's for a good cause." Rusty shrugged. "Besides, they're in the Spirit World now; it's not like they _care _what happens to their flesh anymore."

Terrence walked over to where Rusty was and picked up a thigh-bone, turning it over in his hands, examining it. "So, what exactly do you guys make from these things?"

"Various weapons, depending on our special combat tactic," Moses replied, joining them near the bone-pile, his hands folded behind his back. "Daggers, swords…Ezekiel, here—" He nodded toward Rusty—"specializes in arrows."

Terrence turned to look at Rusty, his eyes narrowing. "_Ezekiel_?"

Rusty grinned nervously. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, it's just that I didn't want to risk it," he replied. "But I was being partially honest before—Ezekiel is my codename. We all have one. Normally we name ourselves after prophets and such and go by that term."

"It's so the demonites we send back to Hell can't track us down and destroy us." Moses easily answered the question that Terrence was about to ask. "If any creature of the demonite forces knew our real names and identities, we'd be in a shitload of trouble."

"Sorry to say this, Moses, but we're already _in_ a shitload of trouble." Rusty got to his feet, his expression turning grim, serious. "Father Simon knows who Terrence is now, and judging by my senses, I think that the Army of the Damned has risen." He sighed and slapped a palm to his forehead, shaking his head in disbelief. "God, two forces after the same thing…and none of them respectably _good_."

Terrence was silent for a few moments, trying to take this all in, then he finally grabbed Rusty by the shoulders, holding him tightly. "Rusty, we have to get back to Foster's. _Right. NOW_."

"Oh, shit, that's right!" Rusty turned toward the others. "Guys, sorry, but I gotta fly. You can handle any unwanted approaches toward the church, am I correct?"

The female member of the team nodded, picking up one of the bone-daggers. "We'll be fine, Ezekiel. You and the Bearer go back to that Foster's place and do what needs to be done."

"Good." Rusty grabbed Terrence around the wrist and began forcefully tugging him toward the area where the whinnying sounds were coming from earlier. "Come on, we can take Dodger. If the Army of the Damned is already there, then there's no time to lose."

* * *

"GEDDOWN!"

Mac cried out in terror and grabbed Bloo as the razor-sharp blade of an axe whistled through the air, narrowly missing both his head and his imaginary friend's as they threw themselves down onto the floor. The axe missed its target and struck the wall behind them with a sickening _THUNK_ sound. A zombie soldier gave a grunt of frustration as the little boy quickly got to his feet, then bolted out of the lounge, toward the corridor, Bloo quickly following him.

Since Mary Wilkes had grabbed Darky things had gotten worse; at least ten more of the intelligent zombies had gotten into the house one way or another, and Mary had vanished, taking a horrified Berry and Darky with her. Mac was terrified out of his wits and he didn't want to deny a thing about it; yet at the same time he knew that if Mary delivered Darky to her master, the entire study plan to stop the Apocalypse would have all been in vain.

No, he thought, as he raced up the stairs to Frankie's room. We can't let Mary get away with this. We _can't_. There has to be _some_ way to stop her.

He could now hear the cracking footsteps of one of the zombie soldiers as it began to tread up the stairs after the little boy and his imaginary companion. Clenching his lower lip tightly, he shut his eyes and forced himself to run faster. He didn't stop until he had reached Frankie's room.

The door was swung wide open, and at first Mac had thoughts—terrible thoughts—as to what had happened to her. Luckily, when he and Bloo ran into the room, both Frankie and Mr. Herriman were there, safe and sound, if not a little shaken. Mac quickly slammed the door behind him, locking it securely before running over to the red-haired woman.

He wanted to say so many things at once, but all he could manage to blurt out was "Frankie…!" as he ran into the woman's arms, shaking like a leaf. Frankie wrapped her arms tightly around the little boy, looking toward the door, her eyes filled with fear.

"It's okay," she said softly. "It's fine."

"I do beg to differ, Miss Francis." Mr. Herriman had backed up against one of the windows, eyeing the door nervously. As Mac stared up at him through tears of fright, he realized that Herriman no longer looked like the strict, chivalry-obsessed rabbit he always was—but just a rabbit. A regular, frightened little rabbit. "If those things get in here, we have no plausible escape route. We'll all—"

"Don't say it." Frankie pressed her head against Mac's. "God, what are we gonna do? That door can't hold out forever…and we left Grandma and the other Friends all alone out there…" Tears stung her eyes again. "Why can't I do anything right?"

Mac looked up at her; Herriman stopped his fear-fit long enough to stare down at her, then hop over and gently place a gloved hand upon her back.

"Miss Francis, whatever may happen to the Madame or the Friends, I would like you to know that it's not your fault." His tone was firm, yet sympathetic at the same time. Frankie looked up at him. "You cannot be held eligible for every Friend in this house…my word, if you were, we'd have kicked you out there instead of in here." He removed his had from her back, folding it behind his own. "You are not responsible for every Friend, Miss Francis, and you cannot control their actions, or what may happen to them, entirely. Please realize this, for it _is_ the truth, after all."

For a moment there was a long silence, as Frankie looked up at the old rabbit. Finally, loosing her hold on Mac, she walked over to where the imaginary rabbit stood…and hugged him close to her, tears dripping from her face. Herriman was taken aback, but did not make any attempt to pry her loose.

"Thank you," she whispered finally, nuzzling her cheek against Herriman's soft fur. "Thank you so much."

"Um, I hate to interrupt your little moment, here," Bloo blurted out, waving an arm up in the air, "but…the door…?"

A loud _THUNK_ was heard against the wooden door a few moments later—the familiar sound of a hatchet. Frankie and Herriman both jumped, and Mac backed up against the window, shaking all over. Bloo's mouth dropped open, and he gave a squeak of fright and backed up as the sound continued, over and over, monotonous. It didn't take a genius to realize that one of the soldiers was trying to hatchet through the door…

"What do we do?" Mac yelped, bringing both hands to his face. "What do we _do_!"

"I don't know, stop asking _me_!" Bloo cried out, not really realizing what he was saying. "I don't _always_ have all the answers!"

"Oh my God…" Frankie huddled closer to Herriman, not really realizing what she was doing, either, as the sounds grew louder, and splintered wood began to fly from the door…

It would have seemed as if they were zombie-chow when a loud "HEE-YAH!" pierced the air, and a gray-and-green blur flew through it, catching the zombie warrior in the back of the head and knocking it off the shoulders with a sickening _CRACK_. It rolled across the floor, as the flailing body tumbled to the ground, slumped over the door, which had caved through during the attack. Stunned, the four turned to look at their savior, who was standing on the bed...

"Grandma!" Frankie rushed up to Madame Foster and gave her grandmother a quick hug. "Oh my God, you do _not know_ how happy we are to see you!"

"Indeed," Mr. Herriman replied, hopping over to the bed. "If not for your brave efforts, Madame, we surely would have been decapitated by that creature by now. We owe you our lives."

"Could we _please_ not say the word 'decapitated' until we get outta here?" Bloo asked, getting up from the floor. "And while we're at it, let's avoid saying 'maimed', 'mauled', 'torn to pieces', 'disemboweled'…"

"Grandma, where are the rest of the Friends?" Frankie asked, chewing on her lower lip nervously, clutching her hands together in front of her chest. "Did they get to safety? Are they okay?"

"Don't you worry your pretty little head, dearie," Madame Foster replied. "All of the Friends are safe and sound in the living room. The only ones that we're missing are Berry and the little goat-child."

"Darky," Mac corrected.

"Whatever." Madame Foster hopped down from the bed and hobbled over to the fallen zombie warrior, removing the weaponry from its belt and tossing a weapon to each of the startled roomies. "Now hold onto your socks, everyone, 'cause we're goin' on a rescue mission!"

"But I just rescued mysellllllffff," Bloo whined; Mac gave him a nudge in the side.

"Outward bound!" Madame Foster shouted, running through the fallen doorway, the others quickly following her. It wasn't like they had a choice, and besides, Berry and Darky were in deep trouble…and if they were still with Mary Wilkes, well, that was the _least_ of their problems now.

* * *

By the time Terrence and Rusty arrived at the House, Mary was already on the roof, holding Darky above her like some kind of sacrifice. Terrence was the first to notice this and, growling angrily, kicked Dodger in the side. "Rusty, can't your friggin' horse go any faster?"

"Hey, hey, hey," Rusty replied, bringing the horse to a halt. "We got here, didn't we?" He looked up at the House, which was surrounded by the zombie warriors and now sported several broken windows and shutters. "Damn, this looks pretty bad…"

"Oh, you think?" Terrence snapped, leaping off the horse, his eyes kept to the direction of the roof. "That damn spirit has my kid, whoever she is. We have to get up there before—" He was cut off by a low rumbling sound from beneath the ground. "Oh, dear God…"

"Someone's using a summoning chant to bring Lucifer back to the Surface," Rusty exclaimed, trying to keep his hold on Dodger as the ground bucked under them. "But none of the demonites know the chant…how—" His gaze traveled to the roof, to a spot beside where Mary Wilkes and her little captives were currently standing. "Oh, no. NO."

Father Simon stood atop the roof, a copy of a black book in one hand, the other raised to a swirling, lava-colored portal in the air near the rooftop. His lips moved with an eerie, monotonous chanting voice:

"_Demolari eo cancelli. Ascensus, asenscus_…"

"That backstabbing bastard." Rusty's teeth bared; they were losing their weak human physical form and were beginning to sharpen, almost like fangs. "He was in the entire Lucifer operation all along. I can't believe it—WHOAH!"

A loud cracking sound, almost like thunder, shook the ground, and he fell off of Dodger, landing on his back, Terrence almost falling on top of him. The portal expanded by several inches.

"We have _got_ to stop that chanting," Rusty gasped, trying to catch his breath; apparently the fall had knocked the wind clear out of him. "But how do we get up there that quickly…?"

Terrence stared up at the rooftop, his eyes mainly on Darky, his tongue out in concentration; he then finally turned to Rusty. "Rusty, remember happened months ago? When Chuck died?" Rusty nodded his head weakly. "Well, that was _my_ doing. I didn't want to tell it to you because I thought that you might freak, but it was _my_ doing. And if I still have my dark powers…I think I can…" He crossed his arms over his chest and shut his eyes, concentrating…which, in his case, was difficult to do. Finally, though, results began to show; a flash of light enveloped him, and, as if in a scanner, his clothing began to change from its usual worn-out attire to the outfit that Lucifer had forced him to wear months ago, when he had first become the Devil's Apprentice. The amulet was missing due to the Hellbeast, but it didn't matter anymore; at least, not now. The flash faded, leaving Terrence standing in his outfit, his fists clenched, still looking up at the rooftop.

"_Asenscus, asenscus_…"

"Rusty, come on." Terrence leapt onto the side of the House, onto the ivy trellis that led up to the roof, and began to climb. Rusty stared after him, unable to believe what he had just seen, but then again, it wasn't exactly something that he wouldn't expect. Heaving a deep breath, he began to bound up after Terrence, the incubus in him providing him an extra boost of strength and balance.

They reached the top in a matter of seconds, and as they climbed over the wall onto the roof, Father Simon turned his head. Catching a glimpse of the two, he grinned coldly and whipped around.

"You're too late, Rusty Nicola Kelbarker! You _and_ your precious little boyfriend!" he exclaimed, his tone almost smug. "It's already been done!"

"NO!" Rusty began to shout, but a loud cracking sound—even louder than the one before—drowned out the rest. The sky grew dark with clouds, the portal widened, and from it stepped a large, demonic beast—it looked like a cross between a sheep and a gryphon—and atop it sat Lucifer, grinning widely from ear-to-ear. His eyes caught Darky, and his smile broadened.

"Ah, the Surface," he exclaimed, taking in a deep breath of the air, which had now become rank, musty. His eyes narrowed and his grin widened into a twisted air.

"It's good to be back."


End file.
